Unrequited Love
by Diamond4
Summary: Frodo's lost tale: There was another reason Frodo left for the Havens; he loved a being he could not have . . . no slash, also with Bilbo, Sam, Legolas, Aragorn. **updated--Ch. 23**
1. A Lost Tale

Title: Unrequited Love  
Category: Romance  
Characters: Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Bilbo  
Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine; no money here, thank you!  
Rating: PG  
Warnings: none (bring kleenix)  
Feedback: Yes, please!!!!  
  
Story Notes: This story was written as a challenge to a friend who wanted "A Frodo Love Story." I decided to do it, and what's more, I'm trying to stay true to the book. We'll see how well that goes. Story is in progress; will try to upload a chapter every other day or so.   
  
  
  
UNREQUITED LOVE   
  
September 20, 1421, Shire Reckoning:   
  
Frodo had all but finished his business with Sam; he had the keys to Bag End, and the Red Book was ready to be handed on. He stood in the front study--Bilbo's study--the very same study where only two years prior he had stood and said farewell to Bag End to leave on his journey to take the Ring out of the Shire, and then on towards his quest to destroy it . . . Only two years, was that really possible? So much had happened. He had been changed into something almost unrecognizable. But he felt so alone, even with dear Sam and Rose, he was utterly alone.   
  
Sam entered with a plate of cheese, looking Frodo over with concern.   
  
"Are you hungry, master Frodo? Rosie's not going to be home from the market for a couple of hours so dinner will be late, I fear, but this here's wonderful cheese. I can fix you up a plate, if you like."   
  
"No thank you, Sam. I'm not very hungry," Frodo said, smiling. Sam shrugged and began eating; he looked well these days; all the weight was back on him, and he positively glowed with fatherhood. The thought sent a pang to Frodo's heart; wouldn't it have been nice if he could have found a hobbit lass like that, been able to settle down . . . but it was not to be.   
  
He loved one he could never have.   
  
Sam frowned, apparently noticing the direction of his thoughts. "You don't have to go, you know. It will only hurt you to see her--oh come, don't stare at me like that, sir, I know the whole reason you're going to Rivendell must be because she's there; you've been moping around for weeks."   
  
Frodo almost snapped at him; his "moping" was just as much because of the ills he still felt from his wounds, which had absolutely nothing to do with this, and at the secret he'd been keeping from Sam, that he was not in fact going to Rivendell, but preparing to leave Middle Earth entirely for the Grey Havens. Yes, perhaps he would see her, before he left . . . but after their last parting, it was just as likely that he would never see her again.   
  
He'd resolved not to tell Sam of his destination; his dear friend deserved all the happiness in the world for what he had done for Frodo. If he told him, it was likely Sam would try to stop him, and he simply couldn't. Frodo needed to see the Havens. He needed to understand.   
  
"I've never told you the whole story, have I Sam. You know a part of it, but not everything. Perhaps I should; it isn't in the Red Book, and I do not wish for it to be; it is too personal, but perhaps at least one hobbit should know," he began, pacing before the little stone fireplace, where the Ring had first revealed its fiery writing . . . Too many memories here. This was why he had to leave. Too many memories.   
  
Sam put aside the plate, leaning forward, his dark brown eyes intent on Frodo's movement. Behind him the sun filtered through the round window and the flowers of the garden outside, making a dappled mosaic on the table, lighting Sam's sandy brown hair in almost an elven halo. Frodo stood before the fireplace and looked deep into his friend's eyes. When Sam spoke, it was in a low hushed whisper. "I won't tell a soul, Mr. Frodo. You know you can trust me, heart and soul."   
  
Frodo nodded; heart and soul, yes indeed he did. And it would feel good to give it to him; perhaps lift off some of the weight of his heart. He sat down across from Sam. "I will tell you the whole story."   
  
------------------- 


	2. A Walk to the Woods

-------------------  
  
  
June 16, 1393, Shire Reckoning:  
  
It was a hot June day; all the other young hobbits were splashing around in the creek, eating watermelon by the cartload and laughing as they chased grasshoppers and fairy bugs. Frodo could hear their squeals of laughter as he buttoned up a blue silken waistcoat and tried not to grimace; he wanted to be with them instead of all fancied up for some odd meeting of Bilbo's.  
  
He hooked the last button and hastily combed through his curls when Bilbo bustled in, positively dancing with excitement, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.  
  
"Let's take a look at you, lad—ah splendid, splendid; you make a fine figure; they're going to like you, I'm just sure of it." He hustled around the room, grabbing a handkerchief to stuff in Frodo's pocket, checking his pocket watch, giving his own salt and pepper curls a quick going over with the comb. He rocked on his toes, looking into the mirror.   
  
"Not bad for 103, eh? Bet that will bring them up short a bit, most likely indeed!" He glanced at Frodo. "You're all ready? The lunch has been packed?" At Frodo's bemused nod, he took him by the arm and steered him out towards the foyer, where two large picnic baskets waited by the round green door; one filled almost to bursting with the best of hobbit fare including fresh steaming bread and strawberries, and the other basket holding several bottles of Bilbo's best wine.  
  
He wouldn't tell Frodo where they were going, or who they were going to meet. Frodo had met several of his dwarf friends; he suspected today they were probably having this picnic with another of them, but something about Bilbo's attitude was different; he never worried about impressing dwarves. And the wine too—that didn't fit; most of the dwarves had drunk beer when they visited; they didn't seem to much care for wine. It was all a big mystery, which was probably half the reason for Bilbo's glee; he just loved springing surprises on his young nephew. Frodo only wished he'd do it on days less hot; he'd been hoping to see Lily Bracegirdle down by the stream and swim with her—perhaps even get a peek of her in her knickers. He's heard rumors that she had a crush on him.  
  
With a grunt, he picked up the food basket, most undoubtedly the heavier, while Bilbo sprightly lifted up the other basket, without even a waver in his step—he really was in quite remarkable shape for his age. Another mystery.  
  
They passed out of the bright green door into the even brighter sunlit day, with only a very slight breeze to send tufts of dandelion floating lazily above the grass, quiet except for the chirping of crickets and the distant shouts and laughter from the creek. Surprisingly, they didn't walk down the main road, but cut across the grass at the old Gaffer's to duck through a break in the hedge, heading for open meadows.  
  
Bilbo took in great lungfuls of air, grinning as they rejoined the road past the outskirts of Hobbiton. "Ready yourself, my dear boy; it's a bit of a walk we'll take this morning. I mean for us to reach the Bidgebale woods by midday."   
  
Frodo almost dropped his basket, his eyes going wide. That was well on the way towards the Grey Havens! This was mad; what kind of a picnic required you to prance halfway across the Shire lugging a very heavy basket of food in a very warm and confining silk waistcoat that in an hour would no doubt be soaked through? Now he understood why everyone thought Bilbo so queer; it certainly wasn't typical Hobbit behavior to exult in the act of walking. And each step farther and farther from Lily Bracegirdle—Frodo clenched his jaw and stared sullenly at the road, hating it suddenly. He'd liked all his walks with Bilbo as a child, but he was 25 now—not a child, no certainly—he was growing up, and should be allowed to do as other hobbits his age. See Lily Bracegirdle in her knickers.   
  
He was brought out of his sulk as Bilbo suddenly began to sing in low voice,   
  
For ancient king and elvish lord  
There many a gleaming golden hoard  
They shaped and wrought and light they caught  
To hide in gems on hilt of sword.  
  
On silver necklaces they strung  
The flowering stars, on crowns they hung  
The dragon-fire, in twisted wire  
They meshed the light of moon and sun.  
  
"I've heard that before," Frodo said, trying to place it—Bilbo had sung it with a dwarf—it had to do with the adventure he'd been on, he believed.  
  
"It is a part of Thorin's song of his quest," Bilbo said, reaching down along the roadside to pluck a fat red poppy. He put it in his lapel, humming and eyeing Frodo with a rascally grin. "Have you guessed who we're meeting yet?"  
  
Frodo tried to count how many of the original thirteen dwarves (or their families) he had met—there had been Fili and Kili, Balin, Gloin—"Surely we're not going to see old fat Bombur!" he remarked. If they were, they hadn't brought nearly enough food.  
  
Bilbo laughed. "Oh Bombur's too fat to travel these days, I'll wager! No, you're way off. Think about the song. And the wine. Why would I bring wine for dwarves?"  
  
"Ancient king—well surely we're not visiting some elvish royalty!" Frodo said, laughing, then gaped when Bilbo winked. "No, surely not the King—Thranduil?!"  
  
Bilbo grinned from ear to ear. "No, not the king himself—busy fellow, I'm sure—but his people are traveling across the Shire, including two of his offspring, I believe. Yes, you're going to meet the elves. Now you see why I dressed you up."  
  
Frodo gasped in delight—he had met one elf, when he first came to Bad End, but he'd only been 15, just a little waif, and the elf had seemed so tall and frightening, though he'd been most gracious, even reading to him a favorite storybook. After that he'd begun asking Bilbo for every tale he could think of concerning elves. Hobbits always said he looked elvish, that he had "an elven air", whatever that meant. Well this was certainly news for the better! He couldn't wait to see what a whole party of elves would be like!  
  
"We're going to see the elves!" he whispered, eyes shining.  
  
-----  
  
(tbc) 


	3. The Elves

"Quel andune; saesa omentien lle . . . Quel andune; saesa omentien lle," Frodo repeated under his breath, trying to get his accent right on his greeting for when the elves appeared; they had reached the edge of the wood and the music of aspens and beechwood filled the air. As he had feared, his shirt was soaked through; damp curls kept falling into his eyes and his arms were aching from the load of the picnic basket. He'd also brushed by a patch of nettle; his calves were itching something fierce.  
  
All these annoyances disappeared, however, as he suddenly heard from a glade to his right the sound of laughter and song in a tongue so smooth his awkward mouth would never get the music of it right. Bilbo pulled him along, chuckling at something—perhaps something they were saying—Frodo was still a novice in Quenya, and it seemed there were two tongues being spoken here, both Quenya and Sindarin, almost interchangeably.   
  
They passed into the glade and the rich sunlight after the shadows of the forest blinded Frodo momentarily; he stood blinking dumbly, still holding the picnic basket against the ache in his back and trying to separate the tall glowing figures who seemed to flow about him in a dance from the dance of sunlight on leaves and bark. It was indescribable; it was like being in a stained glass window. He realized he must look the utter fool and found tongue enough to speak, "Quel saesa; omentien lle andune."  
  
The elves laughed; Frodo blushed as he realized his error, but their laughter was so infectious he found himself laughing too, and then a tall dark-haired elf lord was relieving him of his basket and speaking to him in the common tongue, "Welcome, Frodo Baggins of the Shire. Bilbo has spoken much of you. Come refresh yourself; there is a stream just there beyond the glade, then we shall serve your bountiful gifts. Be not afraid of us; be merry, for today you dine with the elves!"  
  
At the stream he found Bilbo washing up as well; apparently now that the elves had seen him there was little reason to remain buttoned up and sweating; he stripped to his linen shirt and poured a pitcher of water over his head, gasping at the cold of the water and the blessed relief from the heat. Once he'd shaken out most of the water from his hair, he heard a tittering giggle and looked up to find two elven maidens sitting on a rock just down from him, soaking their tiny feet. How they managed to do that with their long wispy gowns without getting so much as a hemline damp, Frodo could not fathom, but as he slowly brought his gaze up to their faces, he no longer cared.   
  
The first elf was lovely.  
  
The second elf was breathtaking.  
  
"Mae govannen, Peredhil Frodo," she said, and her voice was even more beautiful; no bird could possibly match its rich deep timbre.   
  
His throat had gone dry; he was dripping wet and he was staring like a fish, and for the life of him every elvish word had fled clean out of his skull.   
  
Her hair was brown—no, too common a word for that hue, and not entirely accurate—amber and oak, the fine-grained color of polished walnut—dark, rich, but also sprinkled with lighter tones of gold, it was like looking into an entire forest where all the wood tones came together. A heart-shaped little face, so delicate, and as young appearing as himself, with a pert little upturned nose and a wide gracious smile. Most amazing of all, blue eyes; bluer than his own, a dark blue that almost seemed to stray into violet.  
  
She was short for an elf, though of course when she stood she still towered over him. He blushed hot, recognizing she was far beyond his station, and lowered his eyes, trying to salvage some sort of decency. He struggled to remember the words in elven, "I'm sorry, Lady, for my manners; we are well met indeed. You are the fairest one I have ever seen."  
  
She laughed again, bowing, and took his hand in hers to lead him back to the glade as her friend followed behind with Bilbo, tittering something in what must be Sindarin, for Frodo could not make heads or tails of it.   
  
Upon rejoining the others (now Frodo could see there was a party of perhaps twenty elves, some fair-haired, others dark, obviously wood elves), Bilbo took Frodo's other hand and formally introduced everyone--the names slipped through his hands like fine sand, each a long tangle of unfamiliar syllables . . . except for her name. Mornenêl of Mirkwood. And her male escort--her cousin Legolas, son of King Thranduil.   
  
She was kin of royalty.  
  
And he was but a hobbit.  
  
***  
  
(tbc . . . ) 


	4. A wedding and a parting

All through the lunch, and the singing, and dancing (for dancing seemed more natural than walking, somehow), all he could see was Mornenêl, she was joy personified, and yet there was something else to her, a dark shadow under the glittering water, and he was drawn to it. He talked to the first elf who had greeted him, named Gilran, asking him what their purpose was in traveling so far from the vastness of Mirkwood.  
  
Gilran brushed back his long dark hair, taking a glass of wine Frodo procured. "Some of our kind are leaving us; they are sailing away West, to the Blessed Isle. This is a chance for some of us to say our farewells; Legolas and I will travel no further west, but will return towards home on the morrow; we have been warned it would only sadden us to watch the ship depart. Soon we will have other visitors joining us here from the Grey Havens as well; a marriage proposal has been accepted, and we are accompanying the groom back to formally meet with Thranduil where the vows will be performed. So there is great joy in that; and we are grateful for Bilbo and you and your contributions to this gathering." With that, the elf took a deep swallow of wine, and broke out into a new song, this one apparently a well known tune as the others joined in; it was a more rousing and robust song than the others had been singing, and the next thing Frodo knew, Mornenêl was taking him by the hand and he was following in another dance, laughing until his sides hurt, the heady wine going to his head and Mornenêl's beauty going straight to his heart.  
  
Afternoon was drawing into evening when he finally managed to get a seat next to her during a pause in the merrymaking.   
  
He tried to think of something to say; Bilbo had mostly sat with Legolas to one side, chatting about old times in the elven kingdom and the Battle of Five Armies, no doubt. Of all the elves, Legolas had been the most reserved, letting other dance while he hung back, content mostly to drink and chat.   
  
"So you are a cousin to the king," Frodo began, again in Quenya, fumbling over the words.  
  
Mornenêl tried replying in halting Westron. "Yes, I have not left Mirkwood for many years, not since the Shadow began reappearing to the south of us. You have a fruitful and fair land here; it feels so young and innocent, it makes me feel young again."  
  
How old are you, Frodo wanted to ask, but he could not think of a way to make it sound gracious. Apparently the question was clear on his face for Mornenêl laughed at him; not a cruel laugh or a haughty one; rather a conspiring one, as if he had told a joke.   
  
"I was born just before the Last Alliance of Men and Elves, at the end of the Second Age. I'm young compared to some elves, and not compared to others. Legolas there is a bit older than me—he fought in that same war. He saw my father die, also—that was when I came to be raised by his family. We lost almost half our men in that battle; the male elves you see here are mostly of a younger generation."  
  
Frodo was fascinated—he had only begun to learn of ancient history, and the idea that she had witnessed it was beyond belief—he wondered what it was like, to be immortal. She asked him next of his land, for she had only seen a tiny slice of it, and he talked for what seemed like hours about Hobbiton, and Buckland, and the Brandywine, and even about his own parents' death—something he had rarely spoken of with anyone. For several moments afterwards they were both silent.  
  
"Who is the bride? And who is leaving for the Undying Land?" Frodo suddenly asked, remembering Gilran's words. It seemed like a silly question—already he felt as if he knew these elves, had known them forever, it seemed. Something within him belonged here, with them.   
  
Mornenêl was silent for a moment, and Frodo wondered if he had been offensive with his curiosity. He began to apologize, but she held a finger to his lips. A hot jolt tore through him at just that casual touch; he blushed, but she appeared not to notice as she spoke, "I am the one who will be wed. And my mother is the one who is leaving—she is the one there with the dark hair, who was sitting beside me at the creek."   
  
The air was suddenly stifling; Frodo swooned, and he could not be sure if it was the wine or the terrible sinking inside. He choked out the words, "Congratulations, Lady; you must be very happy. I wish all the best for you."  
  
Then the second part of what she had said sank in. "But your mother—why would she leave at a time like this?" He was still trying to fathom how the maiden seated next to her could possibly have been her mother—he couldn't discern any age difference between them! Only now, having this knowledge, could he see any resemblance between them, in the shape of the eye, the brow, and the lips. And her mother—she was dancing as gaily as any of the elves. He thought only the sad and grieving left the lands of Middle Earth.  
  
Mornenêl nodded in her mother's direction. "She has wanted to leave since my father died, but until my future was set she felt she could not. She arranged the marriage, and she will bestow her blessings upon us at the Grey Havens before Turil and I begin the passage back to Mirkwood. I could wish she would stay to see my children born, but I cannot ask that of her. She has waited long enough."  
  
Arranged? Frodo's mind was racing. "Turil and you are very close? How long have you known each other?" This was too personal; it was bordering on rudeness, but he could not help himself. Her happiness was suddenly very important to him.  
  
Her smile faded and his heart clenched. "We are friends, Turil and I. We have not spent a great deal of time together, but I have known him for many years; half of my life, actually. He is a kind and generous elflord; he will make a wonderful husband."  
  
Frodo was grateful for the music and the dancing; the other elves seemed not to be interested in their conversation. Bilbo was now telling ridiculous stories of his adventure, praising the elves and their home and the time he dwelt unseen among them.  
  
"You don't love him," Frodo whispered, half hoping Mornenêl would not hear him.  
  
She did. "I have never loved anyone." All joy was gone from her face now, and her eyes seemed to pierce straight into his soul. "I do not know if I am capable of it."  
  
Her sadness was too much to bear; Frodo found himself holding tightly to her hand, two fat tears sliding down his cheeks.   
  
She gripped his hands for a moment, looking down, then as suddenly as it had appeared, she schooled her features and the sadness was hidden once more. She gently brushed her hands on both his cheeks, collecting up the tears as if they were diamonds. "He is a good friend. That will be enough."  
  
Frodo tried to console himself that it would. He could not bear the pain of thinking otherwise.   
  
---  
  
  
  
(thanks for the comments, everyone!. Chapter 5 coming tomorrow . . .) 


	5. Farewell

Frodo never remembered just when he fell asleep; all he knew was that when he awoke it was to a moonlit night and a crackling fire . . . and to find his head was softly cushioned in Mornenêl's lap. She wasn't immediately aware of his wakening; she was busy in conversation in Quenya with Bilbo who was seated on the other side of her. Frodo stared up at her profile for a long moment, drinking her in, when he felt someone else watching him. He turned his head slightly to note that Legolas was staring at him with an unreadable expression, seated on the other side of the fire.  
  
Guiltily he sat up, flushing.   
  
"Ah, now the youngster wakes up! Thought I'd have to carry you home, Frodo my boy," Bilbo said, obviously well into his cups by the red glow of his cheeks and the slur in his speech. Mornenêl chuckled good naturedly and ruffled his hair; she hardly seemed embarrassed at the position he had just been in. No doubt to her he was just a child, not even worth worrying about.  
  
"Is it time to leave?" he asked Bilbo, but he couldn't seem to take his eyes off Mornenêl. He wanted to say something to her, something that would leave a lasting impression, somehow prove he wasn't just a little childling with a silly crush.  
  
"Soon," Bilbo said, nodding and waving a hand over to the baskets which were both empty now. The elves were all seated or lying back against tree trunks and rocks, quietly talking or humming. Mornenêl's mother sat next to Legolas; it almost seemed she was avoiding her daughter somehow.   
  
Frodo carefully noted Mornenêl's own closed expression—she was hurt, he could just feel it inside. Perhaps he could say something to her mother, something that would make her change her mind . . . "I should say goodbye to your mother, if she is really leaving . . ." he trailed off, not wanting to give any further hints where his thoughts were leading him. He stood and walked over before she could protest.  
  
He bowed to the elven Lady. Would that he could recall her name! "I understand you set sail for the Undying Lands soon," he spoke in Quenya. "I also understand your daughter weds soon. You will not see the ceremony?" There, that hopefully wouldn't sound accusing, only curious, and with his poor accent perhaps it would be forgivable.  
  
The elf smiled wistfully, and now Frodo could see the age difference; it was all in the eyes. If anything this one's grief was twice that which Mornenêl bore. "No, I cannot. She deserves joy and hope. I have none left to give her. It is right she make a fresh life, and I will not darken the moment of its inception. You are kind to worry, Peredhil Frodo. I see you and Mornenêl have already found friendship. I hope it continues, though you must know the passage of your life is but a fleeting thing to us."  
  
That took some of the wind out of what he had been about to say. She was wise; the dancing and the merrymaking was but a mask for her, he saw now. "You don't think your presence is already a joy to her?"   
  
She smiled, and the faintest of wrinkles showed around her eyes. "You've never had a loved one fall to illness, have you? We are strong of body, but our hearts can sicken as surely as mortal flesh. It can be torture to watch. That is why I must go. I have burdened her long enough."  
  
No, he hadn't ever seen someone fall to illness; he could only imagine what it would be like. He had no more words for her, so he bowed again and prepared to make his farewell, but she stopped him with a soft hand to his shoulder. "I appreciate your concern. I will speak to Legolas; I will make sure you are always a welcome guest in our home. Please do come visit. I think you brighten her soul. May Elbereth watch over you all your days, Frodo Baggins."  
  
"And upon you also," he immediately responded, and embraced her. When he turned he found Bilbo waiting for him with an empty basket.   
  
"We'd best be getting on—they're somewhat private about their farewells, which will take place in the morning. I understand if you want to say farewell in private to Mornenêl there—don't gape, dear Frodo; you'd have to be blind to see you weren't taken with her. It's all right; they're used to awe from the likes of us. I think it amuses them. I'll be waiting at the edge of the wood." With that, he began walking, with only a slight lean in his step to show that the wine was still well along with him.  
  
Mornenêl had stood but cunningly found a hollow to stand in so that she was very nearly eye level with him when he approached her.   
  
"You won't be coming to the Shire again soon, will you," he began, trying to ignore a persistent ache somewhere in the region of his chest. Why was it so hard to breathe when she looked at him?   
  
She shook her head, her deep sapphire eyes shining, though with joy or sadness, he wasn't certain. "You could come to Mirkwood, when you're older."  
  
Yes, she certainly had noticed his lack of age, but it was an invitation nonetheless. "I'd like that. In eight more years, I'll be of age. Bilbo and I could travel together."  
  
She smiled—ah now that was joy! "I'll be expecting you in eight years, then. It is but a moment in time. Be of good cheer. I very much liked speaking with you. I name you Elf Friend."  
  
Friends, well, it was something. He bowed his head graciously, then shyly leaned in, wondering if he was allowed an embrace.  
  
The press of her lips on his cheek—just an inch or two from his lips—made his heart stop. Then she wrapped her arms around him and he thought he could die and be satisfied.  
  
When she withdrew, he shivered, suddenly noticing the cold. He opened his mouth to say something, but there was nothing to say. With a deep breath that he hoped would rid him of all the emotions churning inside, he turned away and began walking. It was better to keep this image with him, forever. He mustn't turn around and see her sorrow. Just concentrate on the feel of her pressed against him.  
  
He reached Bilbo and heaved a great sigh.  
  
"Let's go home."  
  
---  
  
next: "Interlude" 


	6. Interlude/A Meeting at Rivendell

Interlude:  
  
(September 20, 1421, Shire Reckoning: )  
  
Several moments of silence passed before Sam realized Frodo had stopped speaking. He looked over at him; Frodo was staring out the window, into the garden, his face an unreadable mask, but his hand—his poor left hand—clutching at the white gem at his breast. Sam's own eyes were damp; he took a moment to wipe them and clean away the plate of cheese and to bring tea for both of them; it had slipped into afternoon without him even noticing.  
  
"You must be hungry, sir."  
  
Frodo nodded, his focus still elsewhere, so Sam set about the kitchen putting together a plate of fruit and cold cuts, his own mind trying to wrap itself around this large portion of history he'd never really known about Frodo. He knew what happened next, he thought—this was why Frodo had been so eager to leave the Shire with Bilbo, even before the discovery of the power of the Ring and the terrible evil it brought. What a shock it must have been, when Bilbo had left and not taken Frodo, Sam thought. And then of course when Gandalf had come and the whole story of the Ring revealed . . . he wondered if Frodo had ever wrestled with the notion of abandoning the quest and leaving instead to find Mornenêl in the vastness of Mirkwood.  
  
Luckily that question had become moot when they'd reached Rivendell with Aragorn. She had been there; living there with her new (in elven figuring) husband, living halfway between her home of Mirkwood and his in the Grey Havens. Sam had witnessed at least one meeting between her and Frodo, but he wondered if he had missed a few others.  
  
He served his master and they both ate of the cold cuts and drank down their tea with biscuits, neither one speaking. Finally, Sam had to speak up.  
  
"What else don't I know? Was there more at Rivendell than I happened across?"  
  
Frodo finished his plate and sat back to smoke a pipe.   
  
"A little," he said.   
  
****  
  
October 26, 1418, Shire Reckoning:  
  
He had never imagined that she would be living in Rivendell.  
  
Frodo had only just recovered from his wound of the Morgul blade; only the day before he had been to the Council of Elrond and volunteered to take the Ring to the Cracks of Doom to destroy it. Life was suddenly a precious commodity that was soon to be thrown away; he knew he would most likely not survive his quest. After the night on Weathertop, it didn't seem a loss; each day he lived was a blessing, for he should have died that night. He was free from fear of his own mortality; he looked around at the elves quietly strolling the grounds in their long gowns and their long faces, and felt glad he would know oblivion after he died; to live forever must be a terrible burden.  
  
The only thing that mattered to him now was his friends' happiness and the survival of all things innocent and good.  
  
He came upon her sitting by a fountain along one of the many paths into the forested cliffs overlooking Elrond's house; she was doing beadwork on a fine gown of sapphire blue and black velvet, working glass beads along the seam of the hem in a pattern that looked like constellations of stars on the dark fabric. The water of the fountain behind her made a soft music, and she hummed to it, her eyes intent on her work. Frodo's foot brushed a leaf and she glanced over at him. Her hands stopped their work.  
  
"Mornenêl," he said; it was all he could say past the sudden tightening in his chest. A faint breeze would blow him away; he felt as fragile as a withered leaf. Since the wound he'd felt only distantly connected to the world, as if he were in a dream, but with a rush now everything felt solid; it was only he that was made of mist, and if she should not recognize him, he would fade away.  
  
"Frodo," she said, and he could breathe again. "You have recovered from your wound, I see. Won't you sit down for a moment?" She patted the space next to her along the rim of the fountain.   
  
His legs obeyed him; they felt rubbery and weak, but they got him as far as the rim before failing utterly, he sat down hard, gripping the hard stone to keep his balance and remind him that this was all real. She was dressed in olive green; a very simple gown with long pointed sleeves and a golden belt just around her hips; her rich dark hair tucked back from her ears by a clip fashioned to look like a sprig of holly. Her eyes were just as deep and dark as he remembered them; not a day had passed for her, except she seemed too still, too quiet. She studied him and he fought the urge to blush like a youth. Her eyes wandered to where the Ring hung round his neck on a chain. His skin seemed to burn beneath it; from either its presence, or her gaze, he could not tell. Silence hung in the air between them.  
  
She broke it first. "I heard about your adventures, and that you are leaving on a great quest to destroy an artifact of evil. When I heard you had arrived I wanted to see you, but they said you were near death. You have grown into quite a valiant young hero, dear friend. You . . . amaze me. I did not know the strength of your kind."  
  
She was holding something back; he could feel it. They were being so formal with each other, as was proper, but Frodo wanted to throw himself into her arms, hold her and tell her everything—how he had found out about the Ring, his decision to leave the Shire, his grief that he had not found a way to see her sooner, his fears, his hopes—but he had no hopes, did he? Only the destruction of the Ring. But he had time, here, now, that he could spend with her before he left. Another precious gift—almost too precious. How would he be able to leave knowing she was here?  
  
"I seem to be the only one who can take the task--it is not strength, only necessity." He thought about Legolas at the council and wondered how much the elf remembered of the last time they had met. The elf had hardly looked at him until his announcement that he would take the Ring. Even more he wondered about Mornenêl, how she had fared. He tried to tear his gaze away from her face, but he could not. His heart was beating so hard, it hurt. "And you? How goes it with you these days? Have you been in Rivendell long?" She must have been; her accent in Westron was faint now.  
  
"I have been here for ten of your years, not long. Turil says this is the best place for us; he can travel to Cirdán if the need should arise, or to Thranduil, and in the meanwhile he spends his days in learning with Elrond. There is so much more here than in Mirkwood, such a variety of elves. The High Elves are a vastly different people; scholarly, intellectual . I too am learning a great deal."   
  
That did not answer the chief part of his question. And he must know; if he was going to leave for his death, he had to know. "Are you happy?" He looked boldly into her eyes, leaning forward. At his breast he felt the Ring stir sluggishly, as if urging him on. He tried not to think of it.  
  
Whether because of some unseen power or his own earnestness, she answered promptly. "No, I cannot say that I am. I miss my mother. I miss Mirkwood. They do not dance here, not like they did in the forest feasts of Thranduil. Here I am considered common and low born." She looked away.  
  
Frodo drew her into an embrace; he could not help it. The notion that anyone should think her low was laughable to him; she was grace personified, and he could imagine her happy, as happy as she had been when he'd first seen her, laughing at his discomfort at the stream. There was a great difference in the elves here, he agreed--they were tranquil and dignified instead of wild and free as the Mirkwood elves had been. "Is there anything I can do, my lady? I too have known hurt now; I am not so innocent any more. But I have love; a good measure of it. If it can make you happy, it is yours."  
  
Her heart beat strong and fast at his cheek; her head was bowed over him, and her arms slowly came to encircle him, holding tightly. He closed his eyes and savored it, breathing in her scent, taking in her warmth. She raised one hand to run lightly through his hair; his scalp tingled where her fingers touched. She drew in one breath then quickly expelled it--almost a sob, then drew in another. Drawing away, she spoke, looking hard at him and gripping his arms. "I can give you nothing; you know that." She released him and her features softened. She almost smiled. "But yes, you do make me happy. You are so . . . good. So pure. I would like nothing more than to spend time with you, while you are here."   
  
"Then let us do so," Frodo said, already planning his days around what needed to be done for the mission and what spare time he would have. "Is this area often used?" He did not want to make her situation worse; what would they think of him speaking to a married lady, alone?   
  
She took his hint. "As winter approaches, it will be less and less used; the wind begins to bite here already and the leaves on the trees grow thin. But do not fear what others think. You are a hobbit; I am an elf. They will think I indulge a child with friendship. Only you will know that I feel otherwise. You are wise beyond your years. I think I could love you."  
  
With that, she rose, and in a swirl of fabric stepped away from the fountain, heading down one of the paths. He opened his mouth but knew not what to speak; she could *love* him?!  
  
Before she left, she turned once and smiled at him; a true smile, which lit up her eyes. "Tomorrow, then? I will see you here. Same time." Then she turned and left.  
  
Frodo stood and watched the leaves falling, dancing in the wind--before he knew what he was doing he was dancing as well, kicking up great piles of leaves just like a childling and laughing as he hadn't laughed in weeks. Though it was fall, the forest was suddenly full of light  
  
She could love him!  
---  
  
(tbc) 


	7. An Encounter at the Fountain

---  
  
Frodo was breathing hard from running. It wasn't easy convincing Sam he needed a few moments to himself, and of course Bilbo wanted to see more of him, and Gandalf had maps to show him--suddenly his days had grown very busy! Thank goodness for Elrond; he had decided Frodo still needed to rest some from his injury, and ordered everyone to leave him alone--and of course instantly Frodo had left his room where he was supposed to be sleeping and come up here to the fountain to wait for Mornenêl.   
  
The afternoon passed. He waited, growing more and more worried--had he come too early? Had she changed her mind? Was she in trouble of some kind? He went over the words they had spoken over and over in his mind, trying to see if he had offended her somehow, or perhaps put too much meaning into her actions. Well who had he been fooling, anyway. She probably did consider him as something of a child--a friend, perhaps, even a friend she could love . . . would that be enough for him?   
  
He nodded to himself. Anything would be enough for him. Just to watch her from afar, just to look into her eyes, it was enough. It had to be. There was no future for the two of them together.  
  
Finally he heard someone coming, and stood ready to greet Mornenêl, but just in time he heard another voice, masculine, and ducked behind the fountain, stirring up a cloud of leaves. The steps grew nearer and they were talking in Quenya. He held his breath; something about the soft whisper of one of their feet sounded like Mornenêl, but he couldn't be certain.  
  
"You did not need to accompany me on my walk today," Mornenêl said in a quiet voice, confirming Frodo's suspicion that it was her presence he had sensed.  
  
"You spend too much time by yourself. This is a great place; you will not find the resources of knowledge anywhere else in Middle Earth. You should go back under Nenrómen's tutelage and learn the great songs of the First Age. They laugh at you when you ask questions about the songs. I don't like anyone laughing at my wife." His voice was smooth and gentle, but Frodo felt a sense of disdain behind it. Frodo was crouched over, digging his fingers into the soft earth until they began to cramp, fighting the urge to peek up over the rim of the fountain. The whisper of the fallen leaves gave away their movements; they were passing just on the other side. He readied his words in case they should spot him.  
  
"Thank you for your concern, Turil, but I do not want to. It would not matter how much I learned; the ladies here simply do not like me. I am alone whether I am with them or by myself, and I find I much prefer my own company." She paused, and Frodo wondered if she could see some sign of him--perhaps the leaves he had disturbed, or a footprint? He did not breathe until he heard Turil speak again.  
  
"You miss your people. I can understand that. Would you like me to arrange for your return to Mirkwood? The pass is becoming more and more dangerous since these new tidings of the Nine and the growing strength of Dol Guldur, but perhaps we can still manage a safe passage for you. I don't want you to be unhappy." Frodo closed his eyes; he wanted to hate this elflord, for being what he was, for the honor and the luck of having this lady, but he couldn't. Turil sounded like a good elf. Perhaps not one who understood the error he had made in marrying a lady so unlike him, but a good elf.  
  
The footsteps grew closer and Frodo feared they would either circle round the fountain or sit down upon it; either way they would surely see him, but just as he thought that, Mornenêl gave a little gasp and he heard her rush away from the fountain, back towards the path. Turil's passage was softer as he followed.   
  
"I thought I saw a squirrel--the little fellow I feed when I come here to sew--but I must have only imagined it," Mornenêl explained sheepishly. Was he the little squirrel, Frodo wondered.   
  
"Well, what am I to do with you? What do you want of me," Turil asked. Frodo could almost see him; he probably had his arms crossed. The temptation was becoming too great--they must leave soon, or he would try and peek over the fountain . . . or put on the Ring and stand boldly up. No. That couldn't be an option. He didn't even know why he had thought of it.  
  
"I will stay here until spring. Perhaps summer. You are right; there is great evil moving in the world; I doubt they can spare any to protect me on such a journey, but there is hope that things will improve; otherwise it will hardly matter where we are. Just let me take my solitude and do not worry about me. I am finally beginning to find peace in this place; I might even enjoy myself here now." Yes, the joy was in her voice; she was not deceiving Turil in that, but Frodo wondered if it was only she had grown used to the place, or if it was his presence here that suddenly made it look brighter. He hoped so. Maybe.  
  
"Very well. I leave in a week for the Havens; I am accompanying Galdor to scout out the territory on the way there, and it will be a good month ere I return. Will you be all right? I wish you had more friends here; I would feel so much better about leaving you alone." They were still at the mouth of the pathway, and by the sound of his voice, Turil was turned away. Frodo inched his way up--he wanted to see this elflord. It was a shameful though, but he could not help it--did he share her bed?  
  
"Legolas is here; I will be well. I know Elrond has many tasks for the lords here; I will not be the only lady left to herself. Go and do not fear for me." There, he could just see them now, one dark head, and one fair--so Turil was of the line of the Teleri, then, Frodo thought, intrigued. He was very tall--a good head taller than her, his sandy hair woven into delicate braids down his back--had she woven those braids? He could not see his face. He didn't want to; surely the elf was far more fair than he.   
  
Frodo bowed his head and rested it against the cool stone of the rim of the fountain, awash with jealousy.  
  
He did not see if they kissed or held hands as they both departed.  
  
He did not come the next day.  
  
---  
  
(tbc) 


	8. The Hall of Fire

---  
  
The next two days Frodo stayed close to his friends, spending time in Bilbo's room, listening to Merry and Pip go on about the trolls--he hadn't really been aware of things by that point, and he insisted that Sam sing his song again--it really was quite funny. He tried not to think about Mornenêl and whether she had gone to the fountain to wait for him--if her husband was leaving soon, it was likely she was busy anyway, and he wasn't quite ready to face her and tell her what he had witnessed. If she didn't already know--he thought perhaps she had suspected his presence. It was all very confusing.  
  
In the evenings they went to the Hall of Fire to listen to the singing--no dancing, not here; it wasn't really the style of these elves--but certainly there were merry songs as well as esoteric ones, and Bilbo tried now and again to sing one of his. Frodo relaxed and simply let the music carry him to distant lands and happier times.   
  
Mornenêl's voice brought him abruptly out of one such dream. She was singing.  
  
The nearest Frodo could translate the elvish was thus:  
  
Sparrow, sparrow stretch forth your wings  
Fly fast where sun meets sea  
Do not tarry; do not falter  
My love I send with thee  
  
O'er forest, o'er mountain, hill and dale  
Wing fast oh tender thing  
The world is changing colors fast  
Cry out my Sparrow; sing.  
  
I'll wait for thee in Imladris  
Til stars their twinkling end  
And still I'll wait for I must know  
My message you will send.  
  
Fly hard, fly swift, dear Sparrow, Sparrow  
Where dream and time do part  
Mother's tears go dry  
As she receives my heart.  
  
The song ended and there was a smattering of polite applause around the chamber. Frodo sat up from where he had been lounging back in one of the comfortable chaises along the walls; in the center of the room, sparkling in the deep sapphire gown he had seen her working on, was Mornenêl.  
  
Frodo felt the urge to cheer and run up to her, but he could not. Turil was with her, and for the first time, Frodo saw his face. He was indeed as fair as he had feared the elflord would be.  
  
Still, though he could not show the depth of his delight in her singing, he could still support her. "Bilbo, look there! That is Mornenêl, or my ears deceive me. You didn't tell me she was here." Which, as he reflected over it, the old hobbit should have--he knew how Frodo had felt about Mornenêl--Frodo had moped for weeks after his first meeting with her, until Bilbo threatened to set him up with every unmarried lass he knew under 50. Of course age had caught up with dear Bilbo. Perhaps it had just slipped his mind.  
  
"Goodness me, I forgot to tell you, yes you're right of course; that's Mornenêl, and Turil her husband beside her. I have only heard her sing a few times--come, we must say hello to them. She will laugh at seeing you here, I am sure!" Bilbo put his gnarled old hand in Frodo's and pulled him forward, and chuckling to himself, Frodo followed, and Sam who had woken up during their conversation also came with them, stifling a yawn. They left behind Pippin still snoring on the chaise, and Merry who was busy trying to outwit an elflord at a game of cards.   
  
As they approached Mornenêl, Frodo's heart was in his throat. How much of his feelings would everyone be able to read? He wasn't an innocent in his tweens this time; he could not hide behind that excuse. He felt stark naked before the elves crowding the chamber, their ancient eyes watching. . .  
  
He took note carefully how Bilbo greeted her, with both hands out. He shook Turil's hand first, saying, "Lord Turil, I'm sure you've heard me speak of my nephew--well here he is--you two must simply meet. And Mornenêl, did you write that one yourself? It reminds me of Thranduil's halls, what memories! You remember Frodo, don't you?" As he addressed Mornenêl, he came forward and gave her a friendly hug.  
  
Frodo followed suit exactly, keeping his eyes down lest they betray his emotion, followed by a bewildered Sam who blushed and said nothing. Frodo swallowed; even that brief contact with her sent a delightful tingle along his skin, but he didn't allow himself to dwell on that, instead taking on his customary role as if he were still Master of Bag End and these were honored guests.  
  
"My gardener and good friend, Samwise Gamgee," he introduced Sam. Bracing himself, he looked in her direction, avoiding her eyes, "You look as beautiful as ever, Mornenêl, and your song was inspired. I'm pleased to say I can understand all your words in the fair elven tongue now." Oh it galled him to act so falsely--it was both a betrayal to his dear uncle and Sam, as it was to her. He didn't' even dare tell her with his eyes how he was really feeling at this moment--the risk was too great. Would she understand? Or was this, along with his absence from the fountain, going to prove to her that he had lost interest?  
  
"Well met, Frodo, Sam," Turil said--he seemed somewhat awkward, bending down to shake their hands, and said nothing else, looking to the other elves as if seeking to extricate himself.  
  
"Thank you, Bilbo. I did write that. And of course I remember Frodo; such a remarkable hobbit--I am not surprised to hear the tales they are already singing of you."  
  
Frodo smiled, and now he dared to look into her eyes; there was no blame in them, only love. He stood straight and bowed. "You honor me, my Lady."  
  
They exchanged light pleasantries, Mornenêl asking Sam about his work and in particular the kinds of trees he worked with and how they fared in the Shire--she was, after all a Wood Elf, and while there were trees here, it was nothing compared to Greenwood the Great, especially not the Greenwood she had grown up in. Turil succeeded in extricating himself when another lord came up to make a compliment on her song, and Mornenêl brushed close by him to whisper one word in elven, "ektele"--fountain.  
  
Frodo nodded. "Senmôr?" he whispered--one of the few Sindarin words he knew. She nodded. Tonight. He felt a leap of joy and something else--he tried to hide the blush.  
  
"Eh?" Bilbo asked, looking askance at him.  
  
"No more," Frodo said, "It's getting late, and we should get some sleep--I know Gandalf wants me to study maps with him again tomorrow and Sam has sword practice."  
  
Bilbo laughed. "Of course. Well it was very good to chat with you, Mornenêl. Perhaps tomorrow you'll grace us with your presence again."  
  
Mornenêl smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "With such company, how could I refuse? Tomorrow then."  
  
She returned to her husband's side and whispered something in his ear--something about leaving, Frodo hoped. He forced himself to turn away, plotting how to sneak out of his room . . .  
  
Bilbo woke Pippin and dragged Merry grumpily from his game where he'd been losing, and the five hobbits walked back to their guest chambers.  
  
By moonrise Frodo had snuck out.  
  
--- 


	9. Turil

---  
  
He kept close to the shadows, using his hobbit skill of keeping quiet so that even the few elves up and about didn't notice his passage as he headed straight for the fountain.  
  
She was there. How she had managed to elude her husband, he didn't know, but she was an elf, and elves didn't sleep every night; wandering under stars was a perfectly normal activity for them. He only hesitated a moment to ensure that she was alone before he ran up to her to take her hand. Then he paused, unsure what to do next.   
  
She caressed his hand in hers. "I was afraid you wouldn't come."  
  
He drew her hand up to his cheek and nuzzled it, looking at her. "I was here waiting for you the other day when Turil was with you . . . I wasn't sure . . . "  
  
Mornenêl looked so serene, so content, her eyes half closed as she caressed his face, "I knew you were. You're feeling guilty now; well, don't. He has lovers of his own. I've met them."   
  
Frodo's jaw had dropped; he tried to look nonchalant but failed miserably. "You didn't tell me that! How could he?!" A fierce rush of anger assailed him, he suddenly thought of Bilbo's elven blade Sting and wondered how well it would cut elven flesh . . . he stopped that thought before it could go further. But he could not stop the anger.   
  
Mornenêl shrugged. "I gave him permission. He knows I only feel friendship for him and it isn't fair for me to punish him with lukewarm pairings."  
  
Frodo still wavered over the idea; somehow it niggled him that things shouldn't be this way, but she had made the decision to marry, and Turil apparently had known what he was entering as well. It still made him angry. "You married for your mother and for security, but now that she's gone, what is the point of staying with him? It doesn't make sense to me."  
  
She looked shocked, her violet eyes wide, and drew back her hand. "It simply isn't done! Elves marry for life; it is the way. Have you ever heard of a divorce among elves?" She put her hands in her lap and looked down. "Besides, I want a child," she said in the barest of whispers.  
  
"I'm sorry," he immediately responded, sitting down next to her on the rim. He resisted the urge to take her hand again; it had felt wondrous, cool and soft on his skin. He didn't want to fight with her; they didn't enough time together for that. And what could he offer her? He was leaving on a quest he would most likely die completing. "We won't speak of it again, then, if that is your wish." To be sent away now, to have offended her--it would shatter him. He could not leave thinking he had hurt her.  
  
Mornenêl leaned in closer to him; he almost forgot to breathe as her dark hair brushed his nose. "I didn't come tonight to discuss my husband." She tilted her head, studying him, an almost shy blush coloring her cheeks. "What do you see in me? You know what my name means in your tongue, don't you? I seem forever buried in sorrow; I am too dark of spirit. I bring nothing but pain to all I love."  
  
Frodo's heart gave a painful lurch--how could she think so little of herself? He reached up a hand to touch that wondrous hair, daring so much as to trace it up to her slightly pointed ears and the side of her face. So soft--just like an infant's hair . . . "Your name means 'star under dark waters', and yes, I can see that it fits--but the dark waters are not your spirit; merely the fact that you were born in dark times--you said you were born just before the Last Alliance of Men and Elves, and that was when Sauron had enslaved much of the land. You don't bring pain; you bring healing. I was ready to give up my right to any happiness after accepting this quest, but I'm feeling again--you gave me that. Even if I can't have you, just your presence here gives me strength . . . " he broke off and had to look away from the intensity of her eyes. He'd said too much--hadn't he? And yet, something was lifted in telling her. Perhaps she would know now it wasn't a silly childhood crush.  
  
He knew he'd said the right thing when she brought her hands to either side of his face and pulled him back towards her, and as he watched her lean down closer and closer, a marvelous shiver went through him--was she really going to . . .   
  
Their lips met.  
  
It was his first real kiss; the first kiss where his heart was involved as well as his mouth; he groaned and clutched at her shoulders as their lips brushed first softly, then with mounting pressure and need. He slid his hands down to the small of her back, pressing firmly into the soft velvet of her gown, tracing her spine. Her hands were still on his head as if she worried he'd move away without her hold to keep him there, her lips almost bruising in their intensity, but as he moved his hands down to her waist, she wrapped her arms around him as well, pressing into him until he feared he might topple over backwards right into the fountain. Sitting, their height difference was much smaller, but her elven strength was almost frightening. And exhilarating.  
  
She seemed to realize his predicament, and with a throaty chuckle which vibrated through him, she leaned back and rolled them right off the rim, onto the leaf-strewn ground and each other's arms. Lying down, the difference in height became moot, Frodo found to his delight. Grinning, he tipped his head to take another taste of her, more slowly this time, exploring. They were both covered in leaves, but it only seemed to enhance the experience--his hands feeling first the dry winkled texture of the leaves, then the velvet of her gown, then the silk of her skin . . . they were both panting, when suddenly they heard footsteps coming up the path.   
  
They both stopped breathing, staring at each other as the footsteps drew closer . . . then drew away . . . an elf, humming to himself as he wandered the paths, not even noting them as he gazed upwards at the stars . . . his path did not bring him close but veered off down the mountain, and Frodo and Mornenêl were able to breathe again.   
  
Mornenêl giggled. "We need someplace more private, I think. Best I let you return to your bed; as you said, Gandalf will want to see you early tomorrow. Allow me to find us a place to be together. I'll see you in the Hall of Fire, since Bilbo so kindly invited me. I'll get word to you then of when we can meet. Turil leaves in two days, you know."  
  
Frodo could not really argue with her; his heart was still pounding too fast. The last thing he needed to do was create a scandal for her; this whole thing still niggled at him--he couldn't help himself when she looked at him like that, but it wasn't right--this whole thing wasn't right. Perhaps by tomorrow evening he'd find a way to tell her in a way that didn't offend.  
  
He just didn't know how far he could allow himself to love her.  
  
With one last, brief kiss, they parted, and Frodo snuck back into his bedroom, skin still flushed and heated.  
  
It was a very long time before he could sleep.  
  
--- 


	10. A talk with Sam

---  
  
Frodo didn't get to see much of her the next evening, thanks to Turil and a 'prior engagement' they had with some friends of his--something of a little private party for his leaving, but in the brief moment Frodo got to see her, she did manage to slip him a note, asking him to meet her in the west wing of the guest suites, by the tapestry of Luthien Tinuviel.   
  
He was nervous; he found himself snapping at poor Sam who knew something was up but was being too polite to inquire, he found himself having to ask Bilbo to repeat things when he told his stories, which since the old hobbit sometimes lost track of what he was saying made it especially difficult for carrying on conversations.   
  
Turil and the elves heading west for tidings left early in the morning, and Frodo did his best to keep busy all day, learning a bit on how to fight, reading up on the land of Mordor (dark and hopeless reading--perhaps it was better not to know too much about that black land), and keeping Bilbo company as he went about his writing. Sam brought lunch from the main kitchens, and as they all sat down for lunch, Sam studied him; despite the sumptious foods he'd picked out, Frodo couldn't eat much; the knot in his stomach simply wouldn't let him.   
  
Sam scowled as only he could with that kindly face. "You're not eating, Mr. Frodo. Elrond went to a lot of trouble fixing you up, sir, but if you don't take care of yourself, you're going to fall back into illness. I'll not let that happen. Is it the food?"  
  
Frodo twirled his fork in a meat pie. "No, Sam, I just don't seem to have much of an appetite today. My mind is very busy. I will try to eat some to please you, though." He forced himself to swallow a bite; it sat like a lump in his insides. He grimaced and forced down another, not really tasting it.  
  
Sam pursed his lips, crossing his arms. "Is it your shoulder? Really Mr. Frodo, you must tell us when something pains you--I should be beside myself if you were suffering and me not doing a thing to help for it. Can I get you some wine? I noticed the other night with the elves that seemed to ease you a bit."  
  
Frodo looked over to Bilbo to see if that comment had hinted at anything for the old hobbit, but after having polished off two pies and a generous helping of steamed vegetables, the old fellow was fast asleep at the table, his chin resting upon his chest and his fingers laced over his full stomach. Frodo smiled. Perhaps because of his newly apparent age, Bilbo was more dear to him now than ever. He returned his gaze to Sam and could see more questions leaping to his tongue. Best to answer a few now, while Bilbo slept.  
  
"No thank you, Sam; wine can't help with this, I think. I'm sorry to worry you. I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you as of late. You are right to be concerned with me." That had been one thing niggling at him; his time with Mornenêl was straining his friendship with Sam, Merry, Pippin, even Bilbo, after all they had done for him. He probably should have told them from the start, but it had been a secret pleasure to keep her all to himself, one selfish wish in exchange for all the public scrutiny his affairs with the Ring were costing him. But it absolutely wasn't fair to Sam.  
  
"I'm in love," he said finally, setting down his fork.  
  
Sam's eyes got about as big as his plate, and then some. "Mr. Frodo!" he exclaimed, then his brows furrowed and Frodo could all but hear the gears working. "Now that don't make much sense, telling me now, here, in Rivendell . . . Do I know her?"  
  
The lump in Frodo's stomach grew colder. "You met her the other night. Mornenêl of Mirkwood."  
  
"An elf!" Sam's hands were pressed into the table, as if to keep him from toppling over in shock. "Now don't it sound funny, sir, but somehow that seems fitting for you. But Mornenêl--wasn't she--" he blushed, seemingly unable to complete the sentence.  
  
"Married. Yes," Frodo said with a sigh. The lump was fire now, and it had moved up into his chest, choking him. He blinked, realizing he was suddenly about to cry. It didn't matter that she said it was all right; it wasn't right--it went against the core of his being to want someone already claimed by another. That was why he was so nervous--he still wasn't sure he was going to go to her tonight. "She wants to see me tonight, Sam. She says it's all right, but I just don't' know . . . I want to, but . . . Oh Sam, what do I do? I really love her."  
  
Sam blew out a breath, scratching his soft brown curls. "Whew, that's a toughie, sir. I can't say I'm not happy for you, for I am--I'm very happy. Fellow like you deserves the best love in the world. But this here sounds like a right mess, and if she's playing with you, I don't know what I'll do. Has she spoken her feelings?"  
  
Frodo was sick, simply sick inside; he closed his eyes and sat back in the chair, his shoulder throbbing in time with his heart now. Funny how it had never bothered him when he was with her. Nothing else seemed to exist, in her arms. "She loves me too, I think. She said I was a light to her, that I bring her happiness. Sam, if you could see it in her eyes . . . you'd know . . . "  
  
Sam gripped his arm, a welcome steadying pressure. "You don't feel good about this meeting with her, though--that's plain. I don't know about that either--somehow it seems it can only bring about trouble. But I can understand the wanting to. Once the scouts get back, our time here is finished, and it's off to dark places for the likes of us."   
  
They were both silent a moment, contemplating. Sam spoke up again, fiddling with a button on his waistcoat. "She is lovely, of course; quite a match the two of you would make." He looked up, a torn expression on his face. "I think this is one time I can't help you, master. I don't know what choice would be best for you. But I'll support you either way. No matter what happens."  
  
Frodo hugged his friend hard, nodding--part of him regretted pulling Sam into this, but the other half was lifted, knowing he couldn't' have gone on lying to him. With a great sigh, he drew away and sat once more to try to finish his meal.   
  
Once. Maybe just one time, he could be with her, and be satisfied.   
  
Hopefully they could keep their secret then, for the rest of their lives.  
  
-----  
TBC  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Sidenote: Hurry that Fanfic.net is back up! Thanks for all the reviews so far--plenty more to come. :)  
  
Evermoreelf: no, haven't read "Oh pioneers." Should I? Sounds interesting. 


	11. Lover's Tryst

-----  
  
The room Mornenêl had found for their trysting was cozy and warm, which was a good thing, for the first stirrings of winter were blowing in from the north outside; it was bitter cold, and Frodo's shoulder was throbbing. She had reserved a small study--Elrond's house had many such small rooms, perfect for reading or holding small gatherings, poetry reading being one popular use. If either of them was spotted entering or leaving, they could always say they were working on a song together.  
  
The room had a long couch (long enough for a tall elf to lie back and stretch out their legs), a small table, and a few padded chairs. It had a fireplace too, and the heat emanating from the merry fire drew a contented sigh from Frodo as he stretched out his arms in front of it, waiting as Mornenêl laid a soft cotton blanket over the couch and curled up on it in a very simple dressing gown of pale blue.  
  
"Your wound troubles you?" she asked in a silken voice. Frodo shivered despite the heat of the fire. Now that he was actually here, he was afraid to touch her. And yes, his shoulder pained him.  
  
"I think it's the cold. I've noticed I'm more susceptible to it now. I'm a bit stiff too--hah--too much sitting and reading today. I wanted to take a walk with Merry and Pippin,but it hurt too much. Does it snow early here?" his tongue gave away his nervousness; it was easier to just chatter on, and avoid looking at her. His insides were tight--half the pain was probably thanks to stress, now that he thought about it. He tried taking a deep breath, but it only made him lightheaded.  
  
"You need a good rubbing down of the area; that should warm you and help with the pain. Come, remove your shirt and sit down. I'll attend to you," Mornenêl said gently, and Frodo risked a glance at her. He was touched by the sudden concern in her face as she knelt down to help him with his shirt--he still needed help with dressing thanks to the stiffness and the bandage.  
  
There was nothing sexual in her approach of him right now, for which he was grateful. With an almost motherly care, she had him sit down and began kneading his shoulder in her warm, soft hands, using a slow rhythmic altering in pressure which soon began to relax him and ease the knots of tension and pain.  
  
He closed his eyes and sighed, leaning back against her as she moved down his back, pressing down on pinched nerves until they loosened, then to his other shoulder, up his neck, then back to the injured shoulder . . . by that point he was so relaxed Elrond and Turil could have burst through the door and he would have simply smiled at them.  
  
Her touch was starting to do other things to him too--very nice, pleasant things which only began as little shivers of sensation down his spine and lead to warmth of another sort altogether. He shifted to brush back against her and smiled in delight at the feel of her velvet gown against his bare back. Her hands slowed their kneading, trailing lightly over his shoulders and down his chest as she leaned in close.   
  
"What do you want to do next," she purred into his ear. He stifled a groan.  
  
Despite his yearnings, he needed to see her, he needed to look into her eyes, see deep inside, to help him make his decision. He could still turn back now. He hadn't done anything wrong, not yet, not really.  
  
Her eyes were filled with longing.  
  
"Mornenêl," he forced himself to speak past the delightful languor she had brought to him, past the pounding of his heart, "Do you love me?"  
  
It was an unfair question, but he needed the answer to continue; he would not compromise his morals for less. Especially after the look Sam had given him after promising his support.  
  
She bowed over him, brushing her lips across his brow, her arms holding him close, then she drew away just enough to look deep into his eyes. "Yes. I love you, Frodo. You are the most dear thing to me in Middle Earth." Her eyes shown wetly by the light of the fire, but she smiled.  
  
The last of the pain left his shoulder, and he was whole again, and the Ring was nothing more than a cheap trinket on an elven chain.  
  
"I love you too," he finally allowed himself to say, and reached up his good arm to bring her head down, meeting her lips with his own.  
  
---  
  
(fade to blackout, as they say . . . ;) )  
  
******  
  
Story note: I was requested to carry on this scene in full NC-17 fashion as I so love to do; to keep this fiction firmly at a PG-13 rating, I will upload the missing love scene as a separate story. Look for "Unrequited Love: The missing scene" soon. :D And you won't miss *anything* of the plot by not reading it. ) 


	12. Never Enough

******  
  
  
November 8, 1418, Shire Reckoning:  
Once was not enough.  
Frodo managed to hold his resolve for about a week after, trying to satisfy himself with talking and singing with her—they did indeed write a song together—a little paltry thing compared to the other elven works or even Bilbo's but their voices sounded so nice together that they were asked to sing a few older well known tunes after their own, to the delight of all. Frodo's high tenor and Mornenêl's full-bodied alto—who would have thought? At least it firmly established their friendship for everyone; no one gave them a second glance when they were spotted together in the library or taking walks.  
Merry (and thus Pippin) soon figured out there was more going on than a little singing duet. They were tickled pink that Frodo was in love with an elf and predictably some teasing began, which was very quickly put to a stop after Sam gave them a talking to. (Frodo didn't get to hear what he actually said, but afterwards he noticed Merry looking at him with concern and sympathy.) Once they understood the consequences of discovery by the other elves, they lent their services to help Frodo by tagging along with him in places where it might be awkward for Mornenêl and him to be seen together, then conveniently disappearing when the right moment came . . .   
By the end of the first week after being intimate, Frodo was in a fever of need, and he had run out of excuses—they were already in the wrong—they had already been together once—what difference was twice? Or thrice? Or even better, every night until Turil returned and the quest began.  
Sam insisted there would be trouble, and he should break it off now, cleanly.  
He couldn't. Despite the fact he knew Sam had a point—there was definitely a danger, and that danger was growing.  
Legolas had begun quietly monitoring their actions.  
During days where Frodo was busy preparing for his mission, Mornenêl was often with her cousin, and by the sound of things, he was one of the few elves being considered for taking part in the fellowship to accompany Frodo with the Ring; Elrond had already decided the number would be nine, and of all races. Gimli was definitely going to represent the dwarves, and it was thought that the son of Thranduil—who had wronged Gimli's father—would be an appropriate choice for the elves, repaying a debt and sealing relationships.  
It was all very awkward for Frodo. Too well he remembered Legolas's measuring stare at his first meeting of Mornenêl in the Shire. If Legolas were chosen and found out, what would that do to the mission? How could Frodo face the fair elf, knowing he had sullied his cousin?  
All these thoughts he tried to keep present in mind, but the moment she entered the room, all thoughts fled but one—he must have her again, no matter what the cost. It came to the point where when she asked him when next they could spend a night together, he answered, "Whenever you want," despite a growing sense of foreboding.  
"Tonight, then," she whispered, and he began counting the hours.  
Merry wholly supported him and set to keeping Gandalf out of their rooms, while Sam said nothing but fretted over mending his shirts and adding a new warmer lining to his coat. Pippin seemed to think this was still a game and gave Frodo a pounding slap on the arm, as if cheering him on in a game of kickball.  
Bilbo, who they had all resolved not to tell, still seemed ignorant of the whole thing.  
Frodo entered the study—a different one this time with a harp in one corner and a small writing desk. Once again Mornenêl had arrived first, lit the fire and spread blankets, as well as set out a mouthwatering spread on the table of apple cobbler and hot spiced wine.   
Frodo gulped his down at once, fighting the urge to lean into her and unlace the front of her gown . . . elven gowns were so loose and simple they took next to nothing to remove, unlike the complicated lacings of bodices and cumbersome petticoats on the average Hobbit maid . . . he grimaced as the hot wine nearly burned his throat.  
"Nervous again? Do I need to give you another massage?" Mornenêl asked, and her voice was hovering between light teasing and concern.  
He laughed. "I doubt I'd have the patience this time. But I'm worried about something. Did you know Legolas may be one of my companions on the quest? I've caught him watching us—"  
"I can deal with him," Mornenêl broke in—perhaps the first time she had ever cut him off. The look on her face belied her calm tone.  
"No." He stared hard at her to emphasize his conviction. "I appreciate your offer, but this is something I need to deal with. It wouldn't be fair to ask him to aid and defend me while I'm deceiving him."  
  
"What will you tell him?" Yes, she was worried; there was no hiding it now. Frodo realized how fragile she really was, how much she must trust him to keep their secret safe. It shook him. He shouldn't have that kind of power over someone else.  
  
"I don't know exactly--I suppose it will depend on circumstances. If he is part of the fellowship, I have to tell him of our love. He should know that, at least."  
  
"Then you'll wait until he is officially chosen by Elrond?" Mornenêl's eyes were downcast, unreadable. Frodo took her hands and rubbed them slowly, seeking to reassure her.  
  
"Perhaps, unless something happens first where I need to seek him out." He thought of those intense watchful eyes, that predatory grace. How much did he know already? What did he think of Frodo's attentions he'd already witnessed?  
  
Mornenêl was as close to being frightened as he'd ever seen her. "Please inform me before you do. We might want to tell him together. He won't be able to accuse you of being ungentlemanly."  
  
"I thought this was all right with Turil," Frodo said darkly, wondering if she had lied to him. His hands stopped their rubbing.  
  
Mornenêl took to massaging his hands instead, drawing closer until their faces were mere inches apart. "Oh with Turil--certainly. But Legolas has been like an older brother to me. A *protective* older brother."  
  
"Need I fear him" This was just what he needed; an elven rival. The room had grown stiflingly hot. The Ring fairly burned his skin where it lay beneath his shirt. He did not remove it even when making love; Mornenêl knew it was the artifact he was to destroy, but she knew almost nothing about its true power or history. Could its evil even reach him here, under Elrond's protection, twisting his love into something dark which could jeopardize the quest even before it began? He shuddered to think so.  
  
"No," she breathed, drawing him into a fierce embrace, almost as if to shield him. "He is loyal and honorable--if I show him my heart in this, he will respect my wishes." She laughed grimly. "He would not hurt a young little one like you in any case--his ire would be solely upon me." She released him. "I can handle that," she asserted. "For you, I can handle anything."  
  
There was no retort he could make to such a statement--he was so touched by her conviction, he leaned in and began to kiss her very gently, very tenderly.   
  
Their time together this time was slow and sweet, slowly ripening like a berry on the vine into full flavor until they were both exhausted.  
  
Afterwards, Frodo lay awake, thinking.   
  
He would speak to Legolas tomorrow, just to find out what the elf was thinking. If he suspected the elf prince knew anything, he would tell Mornenêl immediately and they would arrange a meeting.  
  
He hoped he had not jeopardized everything.  
  
---  
  
  
  
Author's Note: pant pant--ok, hopefully ff.net is back up to stay! And I hope readership is still out there . . . . **hears crickets chirping . . . ** 


	13. A Talk with Legolas

---  
  
An elf could be impossible to find if he wished it, Frodo decided after spending half the morning looking for Legolas. Had he thought the elf was watching him? Or just Mornenêl perhaps; he hadn't seen much of her today either.  
  
He had asked Sam, Merry and Pippin how to broach the subject; Merry and Pippin were still trying very hard to be chosen as additional members of the Fellowship and Sam might not think himself eloquent, but he had a way with words many a gentlehobbit could learn from. Merry agreed with Mornenêl; don't go seeking trouble before you have to. Sam agreed with Frodo--speak up now and be honest with the elf. Pippin wasn't sure either way; he thought perhaps this love business was far more trouble than it was worth.  
  
Frodo gave up on wandering the halls; too much of any kind of activity still made him weak, and he didn't want to aggravate his wound. Instead he made his way to Bilbo's chamber where Sam and Bilbo were enjoying a chat about the gardens of Bag End and the improvements Samwise had made after Bilbo's abrupt departure. As Frodo sat down to join the conversation and share the tea and crumbcakes they had waiting for him, there came a knock at the door. Sam rose to open it and stepped back with a gasp, looking to Frodo with wide eyes.  
  
"Sir L-Legolas, n-nice to see you! W-Won't you join us for some tea," Sam fumbled over the words of greeting, but he was rescued as Bilbo rose to greet his old friend.  
  
"What a lovely surprise—do come in, sit down and have a cup of tea! You like it with honey, as I recall . . . " he bustled to the table to pour then hesitated when the elf made no move to enter.  
  
Frodo rose and bowed. "My we be of service?"  
  
Legolas's otherworldly eyes fell upon him. Was it imagination, or did Frodo see his eye twitch? A cold pit of fear settled in his stomach.  
  
"I need to speak to you, Frodo, if you could take a moment. Please follow me."  
  
Frodo swallowed, but nodded, assuring Sam, "Please keep the tea hot; I should return shortly . . . " his voice trailed off as he watched Legolas turn and begin walking, as smooth as a panther stalking prey.  
  
Sam crossed his arms, glaring at Legolas's back. "If you need help, just holler, sir." The elf paused, half turning, and smiled, then continued walking.  
  
Frodo patted Sam's arm with confidence he did not feel. "It's all right. I'll be back shortly."  
  
He glanced at Bilbo as he exited and found the older hobbit staring at him shrewdly, his brow knotted. Frodo tried to smile and muttered, "Probably about the mission," before closing the door. He had to almost run to catch up with Legolas.  
  
"What is this about?" he asked once he was alongside the elf. They were making their way down the guest wing towards the library—and the study rooms, Frodo thought with a pang.  
  
Legolas glanced at him; hard glittering ice. "Several things," was all he said, before the opened the door to one of the studies.  
  
Mornenêl was there.  
  
Frodo felt himself go pale; he couldn't help it. Mornenêl's eyes revealed nothing, for they were downcast, but her entire posture was of defeat.  
  
Well, Frodo would not be defeated easily.  
  
"I love her, you know," he stated, holding his head up and looking Legolas in the eye. Legolas blinked, taken back, perhaps—it was difficult to tell. His manner softened a little as he sat down in one of the padded chairs and motioned for Frodo to take a seat as well; with great daring, Frodo sat next to Mornenêl on the couch.  
  
Legolas sighed and shook his head. "You know it is quite impossible. Would you destroy her with that love? I was impressed by the tales of your accomplishments, Frodo, and by your strength of heart, but you cannot possibly understand the risk of what you are doing."  
  
Frodo took a deep breath, nodding. "You are right; I do not understand. Mornenêl tells me it is all right that I spend time with her, that it will not anger her husband. As to your society, I know little, but if there is risk, isn't that a choice for Mornenêl and I to make?"  
  
Legolas opened his mouth to retort, but Frodo stood and crossed to him to forestall it. He wished he had an idea how much Legolas knew of their relationship—had he searched out Mornenêl and interrogated her, or was he going off a basis of half-formed theories and observation? At any rate, Frodo would make one thing clear to him.  
  
"I must first apologize to you, Legolas. I was looking for you this morning to discuss exactly this, but apparently you were quicker. I don't know what exactly you know, but I'm glad it is no longer a secret between us. If you had not found out I was going to tell you; there can be no deception between us if we are to work together."  
  
Legolas scowled at him, his long fingers laced together under his chin as he listened. He gave sort of a half growl under his breath. "You make it very difficult for me to dislike you," he finally said, glaring, but there was a grim smile turning up the corners of his mouth.  
  
Frodo smiled—he found it hard to dislike the elf as well. Certainly had their situations been reversed he might have taken the same actions. Legolas was only trying to protect Mornenêl, and some part of Frodo agreed she needed protection against him. He glanced at her, sitting far back in the couch, keeping out of the conversation. Her eyes were a confused tangle of hurt and hope. Frodo felt the urge to go to her, but resisted—he needed Legolas to see him as an equal, and it was better to face him on his feet.  
  
"What are your intentions?" Legolas asked, and Frodo forced himself to concentrate solely on him.  
  
"I am leaving in less than two months, and I do not know if I shall return. You perhaps have ages to find and enjoy a partner, but time for me flows very swift; especially now. I intend to spend what time I may with your cousin, then bid her farewell. Even if I do return, I know there can be nothing lasting for us, but it is my wish to bring happiness to her for the short time that I am able. She makes the decisions when I see her, and under what restrictions. If she wishes me to be secretive, I will--I abide entirely by her wishes." Frodo watched the play of emotions cross Legolas's face as he spoke--the elf was skilled at controlling his emotions, but not perfect, and Frodo could see he still resented Frodo's presence. This had to be resolved, and soon--even if he didn't join the fellowship it would be a poison in his mind to have wronged a potential ally. They needed all the allies they could get in these dark times.  
  
Legolas scowled again, his dark brows coming together as his gaze shifted from Mornenêl to Frodo and to Mornenêl again.  
  
"It is true," she finally spoke. "He would not have lain with me but that I asked." She gave a mirthless chuckle. "Even then he took much convincing."  
  
Frodo felt the blood rush to his face. So Legolas knew that too. No wonder he was scowling. He forced himself to stand still and wait for a response.  
  
Legolas hissed, hitting the arm of the chair with his fist. "It is not *natural*--two races like this, regardless of circumstances! Hah! It would be like-like--" he threw up his hands. "Like me and a dwarf."  
  
Frodo checked himself before he could grin--the image was amusing. "In the house of Elrond, I don't think you can really use the argument of cross racial relationships," he returned.  
  
Now Legolas did smile, nodding defeat. "Too true." He shook his head. "It still isn't right. Just the fact it has to be kept hidden should tell you that. I won't hear anyone--not even the *Ringbearer*--" he emphasized this and all the responsibilities it entailed--"tarnishing the reputation and moral integrity of my *very* dear cousin. You are already planning to leave her. Do it now. Spare both yourselves the pain of leaving when you are both more deeply involved, and spare her the social stigma and scandal of having a relationship with what--I regret to say--is still considered a lesser race by most elves." He looked hard at both of them.  
  
"End it. Now."  
  
-------  
  
TBC  
  
  
A/N: um, since I'm not making any money on this it may be difficult to pay therapy bills, Tech Dust--but thanks for the review! I'll do my best to keep writing and satisfy your needs. (evil grin) This chapter can't be helping any! 


	14. Out the door

-------  
  
Having given his ultimatum, Legolas stood, nodded once to both Frodo and Mornenêl, and left the room. The implication was clear--follow his wish, or risk his enmity.   
  
Frodo felt as if he'd been gut-punched; he fell into the chair Legolas had just vacated, still warm, and set his head in his hands, a terrible weight falling upon him. The room seemed to darken, or maybe it was his wound again, casting him into darkness.  
  
Mornenêl's voice sounded bleak. "Now what do we do?" Frodo had to close his eyes--he couldn't bear to see the pain on her face, see the tears creep out of the corners of her eyes.  
  
"He has a point," Frodo felt compelled to say, though the thought of leaving her now wracked him with pain. "It will only be worse parting if we let it go longer, and I *have* to go. Also, I do not want to subject you to scorn." It was difficult to speak--how his voice could make it past the terrible ache he didn't know.  
  
"It is no one's decision but *mine*, what I subject myself to!" Frodo jumped at the sheer *rage* in her voice--he leapt out of the chair to go to her but she rose instead, and began pacing, tears now falling freely down her cheeks. His vision blurred and he stumbled as the pain of his shoulder seemed to surge up to meet the pain in his heart.  
  
" Mornenêl," he gasped, swaying--instantly she was at his side, helping him to sit down on the couch, her anger instantly forgotten.  
  
"I'm sorry--are you all right? I didn't mean to direct my anger at you--it's him I'm angry with--he has not known true love--he doesn't understand what he's asking for--" she said, wrapping her arms around him and rocking him as if he were a child.  
  
He gently put a hand to her arm to stop the rocking. "I need him--I need to be true with him, should he travel by my side." He bowed his head, the pain coming over him in waves now, and let his head rest on her shoulder. "We will wait. If he is not chosen, I will speak to him again of what you just said--if he hates me then, it will not matter--it will not endanger the mission. I know he would not jeopardize that, even for you. We can continue our relationship, such as it is." He fell silent, loathe to go on.  
  
She prompted him. "And if he is chosen?"  
  
Frodo drew in a shaky breath, trying hard not to cry. "Then I must follow his wish. Nothing can compromise this, Mornenel, absolutely nothing. For the good of Middle Earth."  
  
She released him and moved away, and he bit back a cry of anguish at the absence of the feel of her.  
  
"Then you'd best leave me now. Elrond has already told Legolas he will go. He is only waiting for the scouts to return to make the final announcement." Her voice was cold, her arms crossed over herself as if to hold herself together, and there was a fire of fury about her. Frodo loved her even more, seeing the strength, the passion. He felt like he was tearing in twain.  
  
He tried to form the words, to seal their fates and sunder their ties forever, but though his mouth worked, nothing came out, except a broken sob. Instead he forced himself to his feet, resolutely putting one in front of the other, towards the door. He longed to hold her, but if he did, he'd never be able to leave; in fact he'd kiss her then, and touch her, and begin doing exactly as Legolas demanded he cease. Better a clean break. It didn't feel clean--it felt like a fist was slowly tearing his heart up into jagged little pieces, but this was the price of bearing the Ring. He had accepted it, and he would accept everything that came with it.  
  
Almost of itself, his hand pushed the door open.   
  
Wishing he could close his ears to the sounds of her weeping, he pushed himself out the door, and closed it.  
  
  
-----  
  
TBC  
  
-----  
  
  
Story notes: Wow, Techdust--great review! I've never been drawn to Legolas (book *or* movie), but he's a noble character and I very much respect him. I'm much more of a hobbit fan. I know--not nearly enough Merry/Pippin in this tale, but I do what I can . . . life's been getting busy so sorry for any delays--I'll try to keep up! 


	15. Friends' Support

-----  
  
  
Frodo managed to stumble back to Bilbo's room and crept quietly in--or so he thought. He couldn't see very well--accursed tears--and he couldn't hear too well either--his heart was pounding in his ears and he couldn't stop sobbing. If he could have torn out his heart and left it somewhere, he would have. What use was a heart, but for feeling pain? What use was he, anyway? He had hurt her; he had hurt Mornenêl, and he deserved the pain. He welcomed the mission now. Perhaps it would earn him oblivion.  
  
Sam leapt up to steady him as he slammed into a chair, toppling it in his haste to grab his things and make a quick departure.  
  
"What's happened?" Sam asked. He looked ready to ask more, but his expression changed upon seeing Frodo's face; instead he just pulled him into a hard embrace and Frodo willingly cried on his friend's shoulder, too lost to thing what else to do.  
  
He had totally forgotten it was Bilbo's room he was in as well, so when the old hobbit pulled him into another embrace, he stared at Bilbo in shock, wondering what in the world he was going to say to explain his behavior.  
  
Bilbo patted him gently, pushing back the curls from his eyes as the old hobbit smiled through tears of his own. "You poor boy--I didn't want to say anything what with her being your first love and all, but it's a hard thing to love an elf. Legolas finally broke his word to me, eh?"  
  
Frodo's eyes nearly popped out of his head. Of all the things Bilbo might say, this was the least expected. "You knew? How long? And Legolas . . . ?" Bilbo laughed and handed him a handkerchief to wipe his face, which he did gladly, falling into a chair as Sam pressed a cup of tea into his hands and hovered near.  
  
Bilbo shook his head, leaking tears even as he laughed. "We knew from the first how you felt about her--and she for you too, you know. You and Sam thought I was asleep when you had your little talk here over whether to see her, but I *was* only resting my eyes, as you two never seem to believe of me. Legolas figured things out right after that night--smart fellow, much like his father. I thought I'd convinced him to stay out of your affairs, but then he *is* an elf, and they see things differently. Not enough common sense, if you ask me."  
  
"H asked me to end things--no, he *told* me to end things. And he is going to be one of my companions on my quest to destroy the Ring. I can't make an enemy of him," Frodo said, miserable once more now that the shock was wearing off. He sipped half-heartedly at the tea and waved away a slice of the crumbcake offered by Sam.  
  
"This isn't good for you, master. Maybe *I* should have a talking with him," Sam said, his voice quavering with anger and a fire in his eyes. His fists clenched and Frodo wondered if words didn't work if Sam would take to using his fists instead. Frodo reached out to put a hand on his fist.   
  
"No, Sam. You mustn't."  
  
Sam blew out a frustrated breath, but did not unclench his fists. "For what you are doing for them, Mr. Frodo, they should all be falling over backwards to make sure you have every need and want met before you leave. It's not their business, no how," he grumbled, his face mottled with anger. Frodo closed his eyes--now he definitely felt the Ring's influence, twisting things, trying to break apart a Fellowship that hadn't even been born yet.  
  
"Sam," he whispered, wondering now if there should even be a Fellowship, or if he should head out on his own immediately.  
  
Sam saw his pain and his anger was instantly forgotten. "I'm so sorry, sir! I don't mean to get so upset--it's just . . . unfair! Cursed unfair, in my sight. But you're right, of course. We're going to need help and can't be making no enemies." He blew out another breath. "Just wish they'd have a care for you, that's all." He looked down. "And it's *still* not their business."  
  
"Imagine if an elf were to try to woo your little sister away, Sam, and I think you'll understand Legolas's dilemma--he's only doing what he feels is right. Give it time, Frodo, give it time. If it is right, no meddling in the world is going to stop it." With that, Bilbo kissed both their brows and hinted that maybe Frodo should take a little rest and that Sam should keep an eye on him. For himself, now it really was time to take a nap.  
  
Frodo let himself be led back to his room, not caring who saw his pain, not caring about much of anything, really. The initial agony was settling into a numbing ache which sapped all the life out of him--it was like he was entering the shadow world again.  
  
Sam fretted over him, and he admitted that yes, his wound was also troubling him in order to get Sam out of his room, off to find help, whatever. He didn't care.  
  
He just wanted to be alone.  
  
As alone as he would be forever, now. Lying down on his bed, he turned away from the light streaming in from the windows, closed his eyes, and tried to find dark oblivion.  
  
His pain followed him all the way to blackness.  
  
------  
  
TBC  
  
------  
  
  
Story note: I know, I know--another horrible ending. But this isn't the end! Have faith . . . . Votes for kicking Legolas in the shin?? 


	16. Aragorn Speaks

------  
  
The next two weeks Frodo spent mostly abed--his wound tormenting him, he told others, but his closest friends knew the truth. He had no interest in singing, or learning maps, or eating--no interest in anything. He slept a lot, and he read old elven tales--particularly the one about Luthien Tinuviel and Beren.  
  
Elrond came to check on him, and asked him what was troubling him--he couldn't answer. Sam spent most of his energy trying to keep up Frodo's health, forcing him to eat, walk, take some fresh air, anything.  
  
Finally Sam could stand it no more. "Either we're gong to talk to Legolas, or I'm bringing Strider to talk to you."  
  
Frodo tried to think of an argument, but even that took more effort than he felt like devoting. He said nothing, but stared out the window at the trees, now bare of their leaves and touched with morning frost.  
  
Sam left, muttering about impractical elves and moping ringbearers. Frodo knew he was being childish--if he were sensible he'd get up, shake off this misery and get back to the task he had assigned himself. But he couldn't seem to find the willpower. Everything felt cold and numb--funny how similar the feelings were now to when he had been stabbed; only then he had had a clear goal: get to Rivendell. Now his main goal was more depressing than the present; flee comfort, safety and the proximity of his love (even if he could not have her, it was still nice to be near her and know that any moment he might catch a glimpse of her), and go into the darkest most dreadful place his imagination could supply. And Sam wondered why he was depressed!  
  
He did manage to get to the table to eat some of the cheese and cold cuts Sam had left on a plate for him, drinking it down with plenty of elven wine--heady stuff--he'd gotten a little too used to its help over the last several days. He was in mid swallow when Sam returned with Strider--no, Aragorn, he must think of him as Aragorn now--came into the room.   
  
He certainly didn't look like Strider now, dressed in a shimmering silver tunic of fine velvet and dark leggings of the elves, his beard neatly trimmed. His eyes were the same, though, the same intense grey Frodo remembered staring at him across the room at the Prancing Pony. He seemed to look right into his soul and see the muddle there.  
  
"Sam's told me a little of your problem," he began.  
  
Frodo sighed, glaring at Sam--how many were to know what was *supposed* be kept a secret? This only further proved that Legolas was right--he needed to stay away from her, or surely everyone would know and scorn would be her punishment for daring to love someone like him. He was not going to let that happen.  
  
Aragorn sat down across from him. "I might be able to comfort you, though I don't know if I can help. At least you'll know you're not alone in loving an Eldar."  
  
Frodo stared hard at Aragorn. Did he mean what he thought?  
  
Aragorn smiled, a small, sad smile. "Yes, Frodo. I love an elf too. Arwen Evenstar, daughter of Elrond. So I rather understand the hopelessness."  
  
Frodo's mouth dropped open. At first he was tempted to say something concerning how Aragorn's choice was worse than his own, but he could see there was no need; Aragorn's body language said it all in the humble stoop to his shoulders, the ragged frown on his face--this was a deep and heavy issue for him, much like Frodo's love for Mornenêl. The next thing he wondered he asked aloud. "How long?"  
  
"Longer than you've been alive, dear hobbit. But I cannot say my cause is completely hopeless. If you succeed in your quest and I succeed in mine, I may yet have her hand in marriage, if it is truly of her wish. I wish I could say the same for you. I cannot ask you to put her out of your mind, for I know the impossibility of it. All I can do is offer comfort in a comfortless situation." Aragorn offered his hand, and Frodo took it as if it were a lifeline and he were drowning in a swift moving river. The tears came again, willed away or no; they were always just under the surface these days. Aragorn drew him into a hard, almost angry hug, and it was just what he needed, for he was angry, and Aragorn was angry with him--this was better than Sam's cautious gentle hand with him. He needed the love to be pummeled out of him; he needed to become stone as the Ranger had. How many years would that take, he wondered?  
  
"I think," Aragorn said after a few minutes of holding him, "that you have already made your decision to leave her, and it is a right one; you simply cannot tear a woman in two with divided loyalties. But I think you should have the option to choose the manner of your farewell; things were too abruptly broken, and that is entirely Legolas's fault. I will speak to him, or we may together, but he should understand that what he did was not right; and despite your efforts to heal the wound in the fellowship the two of you cannot have this between you if you are to succeed. You could say I have a personal interest in this as well. Would you like my help?"  
  
Frodo swiped at his eyes, amazed anew at the transformation he was witnessing in Aragorn, from dark and suspicious stranger to hero and now this wise, kingly man before him. He suddenly felt small and undeserving. And very grateful. He nodded. "I would, thank you. You've given me a lot to think about, but I believe you are right. I can't leave like this. I must see her one more time, and try to do things better; at least make them livable. But I suppose my time for moping is past. I wish I'd known your story sooner--I must look like a fool to you . . . "  
  
Aragorn laughed and released him. "Absolutely not, dear Frodo. On the contrary, I understand completely. My moping simply had a lot more action involved."  
  
Frodo had to laugh at that; he suddenly envisioned Aragorn hacking off the head of an orc and calling it 'moping.' "When should we seek out Legolas?" he asked.  
  
"Now, if you prefer. Time grows short; in a few weeks the scouts will return, and it will be time to leave. I have no engagements this afternoon. Shall we walk together?" Aragorn rose and offered Frodo and hand to his feet, as Sam hung back, looking uncertain and out of place.   
  
"You too, Sam--you're a part of the fellowship too, you know," Frodo said, and took Sam by the other hand.  
  
The three of them left the chambers on the search for one Prince of Mirkwood . . .   
  
-----  
  
TBC  
  
----- 


	17. Elrond and Legolas

-----  
  
They walked the sunlit halls, passing by little smoking braziers that the elves had lit to combat the growing chill of winter; the elves they passed wore long velvet cloaks lined with fur.  
  
Aragorn made a quiet inquiry with a dark-haired lord in Sindarin; nodding, he guided Frodo with a hand to his shoulder towards Elrond's own chambers.  
  
"This is good--Elrond is speaking to him right now."  
  
Frodo eyed him doubtfully. "I do not wish for Elrond to know of this. That would defeat all the measures I have taken to protect Mornenêl."  
  
Aragorn chuckled. "You think Elrond doesn't know what occurs in his own home? I was that foolish once. Believe me, he knows. It will impress him that you come to him yourself to apologize for any indelicate actions you may be guilty of. There is a good deal more to elven courting that you are aware of. Fortunately, I think that most everyone here *likes* you, just as they adore old Bilbo. Yours is one of the most charming races."  
  
This was all *much* more complicated than he had imagined--what had he been thinking to ever get this involved in the first place?  
  
He gulped as a dark-haired elven maiden swept by in a sapphire gown--not Mornenêl, but for an instant there had been a resemblance . . . he could even smell a scent of her in the air, pine and lavender . . . oh yes, *that* was why he had taken the risk. To experience the entire essence that was her.  
  
He halted, suddenly unsure if he wanted to go on. "She won't be there, will she?" he asked. He wasn't ready to see her--everything was too raw; he had finally begun to get used to the idea of not seeing her. Could he really stand to talk to her again?  
  
"You're not returning to the room to mope, sir," Sam muttered at his side, standing up to him but hiding his face even as he did so.  
  
Aragorn offered his hand. "I would be very surprised if she were there. Keep moving, Frodo, don't be afraid."  
  
"I'm not afraid," Frodo murmured, resuming his stride, but it was a lie. Ahead of them the grand double doors stood closed, their golden designs of twisting and spiraling vines glinting in the afternoon sun. A single elf in light armor stood guard, standing still enough to be mistaken for a statue. He smiled and bowed upon seeing Aragorn.  
  
Aragorn greeted the elf by name in Quenya and asked if Elrond was available.  
  
"I will check if you will allow me," the elf replied, and slipped inside. Frodo held his breath--the elf had hardly spared him a glance, but surely his presence would be mentioned--and then what would Elrond say? Perhaps he wouldn't even speak to him; if he had reacted poorly to Aragorn's love, how much worse would the love of a humble hobbit seem to him?  
  
It was only a minute, but Frodo sweated and began to shake. Sam glanced at him, frowning, and asked in a low voice, "Mr. Strider, would Elrond take it very much amiss if I kicked Legolas in the shin?"  
  
Aragorn didn't have time to respond, for then the elf was emerging, opening both the doors for them and beckoning them inside.   
  
Elrond sat on a high backed chair behind a large mahogany desk, his chin resting on his fist and his eyes clouded; he sat up as they entered, frowning, his immaculate long hair swept back from a face that had seen too much, endured too much loss. Legolas stood to one side by a chair where he had apparently been sitting, tension in his proud stance, his eyes almost black and his brows drawn forward in consternation. He was dressed in black velvet today with silver trim that only heightened the contrast of his fair hair.  
  
Aragorn led Frodo and Sam to stand beside him and bowed his head in greeting, saying nothing but hinting with his eyes that Frodo should speak first. Frodo swallowed in a dry throat and bowed low. "Elrond, sir, I have come first to apologize to you for any conduct of mine you may have found offence in. Despite Bilbo's teachings, I am yet unfamiliar with your ways, but I understand I have not acted in entirely an honorable fashion as of late. I've been most grateful of your hospitality." There, that should cover anything and yet not give away much. If Elrond was upset about his love for Mornenêl, he would have to say what he knew; Frodo would reveal nothing.  
  
Elrond nodded, and some of the concern left his face. "Thank you. You have behaved discreetly, which I approve of. That is all I ask, concerning my house. It is with Legolas that your doings concern me; I am trying to organize a party to support you in your undertaking with the Ring, and it is unraveling as quickly as I can thread it together. The arm of Mordor has indeed grown long. You and Legolas must speak. You must know now I wish him to represent my ilk on your journey, but this cannot be with the tension between you. Speak freely; I will utter no word of this outside these walls." He leaned back in the chair, showing with his body language he would try to stay out of the conversation as much as possible.  
  
Legolas breathed a deep sigh and locked eyes with Frodo; Frodo held himself rigid, prepared for anything. Sam had assumed almost a battle stance next to him; the heat from him was palpable, but Aragorn was relaxed and smiling, encouraging. Finally Legolas spoke. "I too must apologize. After some discussion with my cousin--" here he gave another longsuffering sigh, "--I realize I had no place to make any demands on you. I understand you've been ill, and it is most assuredly my fault. I did not know the depths of either your nor Mornenêl's hearts." He paused, struggling it seemed to find the right words.  
  
Frodo realized it must be costing him to make such an apology; he was a proud elf, with few dealings outside his kind. He strode forward and offered a hand--he wanted this reconciliation just as badly. As for Mornenêl, his heart was numb. Nothing Legolas said or did would hurt him now; he had already faced the blow of leaving and never saying another word to her; he had already come to the conclusion Legolas wanted him too, that he must say goodbye to her, for her sake. "You had some good points in your words. The ultimatum may not have been right, but you were entirely within your rights to speak to us."   
  
Legolas slowly raised his hand and placed it in Frodo's, and Frodo jumped a little--the smooth skin was cold and clammy. The thought of an elf with clammy hands made him smile; he couldn't help it. The elf smiled back, perhaps guessing his thoughts. He glanced up at Aragorn. "You were right. There is more to him than I had guessed." He looked back to Frodo. "I will not make any more judgments or requirements; it is not my place. I leave matters to your discretion. Just know this: you hold her heart in your hand. Be wise." He closed his eyes and waited for Frodo to respond--Frodo could see it was costing him to place his trust in him, yet he seemed more relaxed than when they had entered. Apparently he was ready and willing to abide by whatever Frodo decided.  
  
Then it hit him. Legolas was allowing him to see Mornenêl, to do whatever he wanted. He would completely step out of the way--no wonder he had looked so uncomfortable!  
  
Frodo squeezed his hand and Legolas opened his eyes. "I will do my best not to betray your trust. Thank you." He glanced at Elrond, watching quietly the proceedings. "And I will try not to betray *your* trust either, Lord Elrond." He turned last to Aragorn. "If you'll help me with some advice."  
  
"I would be happy to, dear friend," Aragorn said, smiling, but with a hint of pain in his eyes. Frodo recognized that pain--it would be everpresent in him, once he left Rivendell.  
  
"Is it settled, then? Will there be trust in the members of the Fellowship?" Elrond asked, looking now not at Frodo or Legolas, but at Sam, who remained standing close, eyes fixed on Legolas.   
  
He seemed to feel the elf lord's gaze; flushing, he looked up at him and then realizing the question was directed at him, he hung his head and stepped behind Frodo. "I'm well as long as my master here is well," he said in a quiet but clear voice, surprising Frodo with his directness at these high elf lords. Once again he thanked Gandalf for choosing Sam as his companion.  
  
Frodo looked at Legolas, who was smiling faintly at Sam's protectiveness. Yes, he was much more relaxed now--Frodo had said the right words, apparently. And he *did* understand his position--perhaps he had grown up an only child, but he certainly had younger cousins he cared for; the elf had only tried to protect her much as Sam probably would've in a great irony. Yes, they could work together. He could trust him.  
  
Legolas met his eyes, and an understanding passed between them. There seemed nothing else to say, so with another bow Frodo asked leave of Elrond, and followed Aragorn out of the chamber.   
  
It was only as he returned to his room that the implications came fully to him. He didn't really know whether he should see Mornenêl again. He wasn't sure if he could endure another parting.   
  
An elf arrived with a note. Aragorn thanked him and handed the note to Frodo, and from the instant he saw the long twisting form of the letters, he knew whose hand had written it. With shaking hand he undid the seal and opened the letter as the elf left and closed the door.   
  
"Who's it from?" Sam asked, too polite to lean in and look.  
  
"Mornenêl," Frodo breathed, his heart pounding. "She wants to see me tonight." He looked up at Aragorn, wide-eyed with fear. "Should I? I don't know if I can."  
  
Aragorn's lips were set in a thin line. "If you are not ready, then don't. You will cause more harm than good; believe me, I know. But I do think you should see her at least once more and make a proper farewell. A parting in haste should not be the last memory you hold with you on such a difficult journey. Take your time, and do only what you are comfortable doing. If she loves you, she will understand."  
  
Frodo nodded, clutching at the note, wishing so hard that it hurt that things were different; that he was different--something that could attain such a lady. He fought it, but two tears slipped down his cheeks nonetheless. He wasn't ready, and yet he knew he *must* see her again, just as Aragorn said.  
  
"I can deliver your response, if you wish," Aragorn said.   
  
Frodo smiled through his tears at such a notion, a king willing to be his messenger. "Tell her . . . tell her I will see her . . ." he clutched at his breast and the nervous flutter there, "I will see her . . . tomorrow."  
  
****  
  
  
  
  
  
AN: See? It's slowly getting better . . . for now. 


	18. Enough

****  
  
Frodo smoothed his jacket and waistcoat. "How do I look?"  
  
Sam gave him a sad smile. "You're looking well, sir, just as well as you did a few minutes ago. Just rest easy. She'll be here soon."  
  
But Frodo couldn't rest easy--it was all he could do not to pace the pathway among the bare trees and the piles of gold and rust leaves, hoping to catch a sight of her before she spotted him.  
  
They were back at the fountain. Aragorn had thought it best they meet in the open, and chaperoned--no one could fault Frodo for dishonorable motives then, and it should be clear that they were friends and would remain so after Turil returned. Aragorn seemed to feel Frodo should limit any physical side of the relationship--easier for both of them. Frodo had to agree, much though other parts of him railed against the idea.  
  
He was trying to focus on what it was about her he had first fallen in love with, images he could take with him on his dark journey. There was something both young and old about her, but that could be said of almost any elf, and perhaps himself as well. Her loss of mother and father? Ah now, that struck closer to home. Her quiet self assurance? Most assuredly. And yet also her daring, her defiance.  
  
And she was a terrible dancer. Perhaps the slow melodious songs of Elrond's house just didn't suit her; perhaps she was more used to wild cavorting and leaping in a forest glen, but she simply didn't move gracefully, especially compared to other elves. And that was probably what he loved most about her--she wasn't just an elf; she was something less, and more. He smiled.  
  
"I see her, sir. Down the hillside, there."  
  
An icicle of fear stabbed his heart. He took a deep breath, smoothed his clothes once more, and rose to greet her.  
  
She came alone, clad in soft silver, her hair in a long braid and her person free of adornment save for a low belt of silver fashioned into tiny birds, swooping and diving around her hips. She looked somewhat pale, he noted--had she lost weight? But her eyes were shining and her lips formed a rich smile.  
  
"My Lady Mornenêl," He tried to still the quiver in his voice, "I hope you are well?"  
  
A shadow of emotion--pain? Anger? Crossed her face before it was mastered. "It would be customary for me to say I am well now, but I fear it is my curse to be truthful. I have not been well. I was sorely angry with you."  
  
Frodo felt the ground tilt under him; he reached out a hand to Sam's shoulder to steady himself, fighting the urge to mutter an apology and flee, back to the safety of his room. He had hurt her. If he had doubted it for a moment, well, here was proof.  
  
He forced himself to meet her gaze. "I'm sorry--sorry for everything. Should I leave you alone, then?" It was crisp and cold in the November morning, yet he was sweating. His heart had become a dead weight in his chest.  
  
"No!" she retorted, the anger and pain flashing again in her eyes. "Let us not waste another moment--too much time has already been wasted. Come with me. Let us be together," she said, holding out a hand for him to take. He couldn't. He looked up at her pleadingly, but it was Sam who rescued him.  
  
"My Lady, I'm a plain speaking hobbit, so you'll have to forgive me, but I don't think you're thinking of Mr. Frodo's feelings in this. Can't you see how hard this is on him? Maybe there'll be a time for togetherness, but right now I think you should both take it slow. I don't want to be fixin' up his heart no more." Frodo had to smile at that last comment, seeing the determination and anger in Sam's face. Ever his stalwart protector. But who would have thought he'd ever have to protect Frodo from an adversary like this?  
  
Sam's words had certainly brought Mornenêl up short. She looked hard at Frodo, a crease forming between her dark brows, suddenly unsure of herself. Frodo tried to think of an appropriate thing to say, but words had fled him. He was so happy she was here, yet so sad that this couldn't last--there was simply no path for them together. He blinked away a tear and took both her hands in his, trying to impart his feelings with his eyes alone.  
  
"You . . . are right, Mr. Gamgee," she said slowly, and Sam blushed at her formal tone, "I did not think. I only felt." She looked deep into Frodo's eyes, soft now, yielding. "We will follow *your* wishes now, my heart. We will only do what you feel comfortable doing." She knelt down and laid a hand on his cheek, and Frodo could sense her holding back from embracing him; her other hand was fisted at her side.  
  
He stepped forward and threw his arms around her. "Why don't we simply start with this?"  
  
He kissed her.  
  
It was enough.  
  
*****  
  
  
  
  
A/N: errgh, I know, I'm kind of slowing down on this thing. It's getting harder to write this one--busy with other projects. Keep encouraging me--I really *am* trying to keep working on this . . . 


	19. A Perfect Farewell

*****  
  
December 8, 1419, Shire Reckoning  
  
  
For nearly a week and a half, just to be with her was enough.  
  
To be loved by the light of her eyes, in the embrace of her arms--for a short while Frodo knew true happiness and peace, and thoughts of the Ring and the darkness ahead failed to touch his mind; he was filled totally with her starlight, her laughter.  
  
But time was nearly out; watchers had reported that scouts were returning; Galdor's party, which included Turil, had been spotted only a day or two's ride away. It was time to say goodbye to Mornenêl.  
  
He was going to lay with her one more time--they had both agreed--they *needed* one more time to fully lock into their minds for all time. No more than that one time for farewell, though--if he grew accustomed to sharing her bed he would never be able to leave it. Once more. And he would cherish it.  
  
Legolas knew too; Frodo had made it a point to be open and honest with him in all his dealings with Mornenêl, and it surprised him how well the elf responded to this. He could not say that they were friends exactly, but there was a bond between them now. Frodo no longer doubted the elf would do his all to protect him now, on the quest.  
  
Sam fretted over him that evening, knowing perfectly well what he intended and trying his utmost to keep Frodo's spirits up about the whole thing. They both knew it was a hopeless gesture, but if it helped Sam deal with Frodo's pain, that at least was something. Somehow, though, the thought of leaving did not trouble Frodo quite as badly as it had before. The mending of their relationship had soothed his troubled heart. If he was going to leave, at least he could leave with a pleasant picture of her in his mind. Best not to think to the future, to his fate. He was going to die out there; he was almost sure of it, but he fervently hoped he could at least complete his quest first. Mornenêl was just one more reason to succeed--her safety and the safety of Rivendell against the black tide of Mordor.  
  
Frodo would have liked to have their last tryst in a proper bed, but he certainly wasn't going to visit her chambers she shared with Turil, and it was hardly appropriate for her to visit his where anyone could see her, so they had once again decided to meet in the study room. If it had been summer, perhaps a night under the stars would have been appropriate . . . Frodo sighed. He wanted perfection in an unperfect world.  
  
He arrived early, hoping to be first. She had apparently been by--the fire had been started in the fireplace, and blankets were folded on the chair, but she must have stepped out, hopefully for a while.  
  
Frodo had brought a basket with a few things. On the previous two visits here, she had set the place according to her tastes. He deemed it was time for him to do his best to show her just how special she was to him, thank her for the time they had shared.   
  
He set and lit candles around the room--Merry and Pippin had "donated" them and he was afraid to ask where they had procured them, but as he hadn't heard any complaints from Elrond yet, he hoped it was safe to use them.  
  
Sam had created a bouquet of--well not flowers, as it *was* the eve of winter--but holly, pine, oak and maple leaves, and berries and nuts arranged as only the poetic gardener could arrange things in a splendid wreath. Frodo had little to give as a love mathom but this. He hoped it was enough.  
  
He did not trust himself to pick a wine Mornenêl would find pleasing--hobbit tastes would never match the delicate palettes of the elves--but Bilbo had baked his famous mushroom puff pastries--well, this gift was probably more for Frodo than Mornenêl, but he would try to sway her to the delectable art of enjoying mushrooms.  
  
He was setting up a few other treats Aragorn had gathered for him—elven love foods, he'd said with a conspiratorial wink--and was just about to arrange the blankets to his liking when Mornenêl returned. A soft blush and a wide smile came to her face at the sight of the candles and lover's picnic. Frodo felt his own cheeks grow warm. "I thought to make this time special."  
  
"Every time is special. But thank you," she replied, and her eyes were moist, but she was smiling as she swept forward to kneel before him and take his face in her hands, leaning in to kiss him. Frodo sighed and closed his eyes, lost in her soft touch, the delicate smell of her perfume--rose and something else, something woodsy. Her fingertips made light circles at the sides of his face, through his curls. He raised his hands to let her long silken strands fall through his fingers. A sudden pain tore through him. Almost the last time he would feel her lips, her hair, her scent. She pulled back and gazed at him and he could see his thoughts mirrored there.  
  
Her voice was bleak. "How will I endure the ages without you? I envy the children of Luthien and their choice!"  
  
There was little Frodo could say to that; the best he could do was gather her in his arms and hold tight to her, kiss her hair, as she rested her head on his small shoulders.   
  
She murmured into his neck, "If you die, I shall leave for Aman."  
  
"And Turil?" Her words dismayed him; he had not known the true depth of her heart. He felt rage, first at the Ring, this terrible thing come between them. Sorrow also for Turil who had a jewel but would never truly enjoy its sparkle.  
  
"He could always choose to stay or go. He would not be the first to lose his spouse to the Undying Lands early. Nor the last, I imagine."  
  
"Come, let's stop this dark talk. Tonight is for joy, for happiness. I want to introduce you to a particular pleasure of hobbits. Try one of these," Frodo said, brushing the wetness from his eyes to fetch a mushroom puff. Mornenêl smiled at his attempts at humor, spreading out the blankets on the floor and arranging her gown to sit down on them. She wore simple white tonight, in stark contrast to the rich mahogany of her hair and the pale blush of her skin. Frodo drank in the sight of her before holding out the puff to take.  
  
She grinned mischievously, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth.  
  
Frodo's breath caught in his throat. His hand trembled as he held the morsel to her soft red lips, felt the brush of her teeth against his skin as she took a bite. She chuckled in pleasure as she chewed, opening one eye to peek at him in mirth. He took the other half and with a wink, popped it into his mouth.  
  
Mornenêl smiled. "I don't believe I got *nearly* a good enough taste of that." Before Frodo could think of a retort, she leaned forward and tasted his lips instead. He almost forgot about the mushrooms.  
  
When he could breathe again, he pulled back. "No, no, not even *you* can stop me from having my fill of Bilbo's mushroom puffs. Let me bring you another. There are other treats as well--something from the South called 'dates', sugared almonds, pickled olives, and something else Aragorn called 'chocolate'.   
  
He set up the picnic on the floor and they took turns feeding each other and very soon Frodo found his favorite of the elven love foods was that delightful substance called 'chocolate.' After they had devoured most of that, they made a game of the others; one would close their eyes and the other would tease them with what they were offering--perhaps let them smell almond but then give them an olive. They laughed and played at eating until suddenly they found food just wasn't interesting any longer, not compared to the sweetness of each other's lips.  
  
Stretching out, they lied back against the soft woolen blankets. Frodo traced the shape of Mornenêl's face with his fingertips, trembling even ash she mirrored the gesture on his own face, her violet eyes intent on him. "You are so beautiful," she whispered in wonder, tracing one cheekbone with her finger.  
  
Frodo chuckled--it was ludicrous to think *him* beautiful next to a spirit of the earth like her. Elves always seemed to be described as ethereal, airy. Not Mornenêl. He could imagine the earth itself giving birth to her, as the soil brought forth a rose, or as the Withywindle River had somehow produced Goldberry for Tom Bombadil.   
  
"There are not words to describe the light in you. I will need my entire life to write one worthy poem."  
  
She blushed and ducked her head from his caress. "A most cunning tongue you have, Frodo."  
  
Frodo could think of a retort or two to that, but instead he simply kissed her.   
  
They made love slowly and reverently, adoring each other's bodies, whispering endearments and tender wishes. Afterwards, they lay in each other's arms huddled in the blankets by the fire, limbs heavy with satiation and sleep.  
  
"Please, take care on your journey. I have heard it is a desperate quest, that the chances of success are slim, but do not throw your life away needlessly. I will wait here for you. If you return, I will find a way to stay with you, even if I must openly defy my husband." Mornenêl's voice broke at the end, and a hot tear splashed on Frodo's hand where it rested in her lap.  
  
He breathed in her pain, felt it merge with the pain already within him. Wrapping his arms around her, he rested his head on her shoulder. "Do not destroy yourself for me, Mornenêl. Whatever happens . . . live."  
  
Her hand rested on his brow. "If you die, I will die too. An elf *can* choose to die of grief."  
  
"But you will not meet me in the Halls of Mandos," Frodo tried to control his voice, but it shook nonetheless, revealing his despair.  
  
"Not until the end of Time," Mornenêl's voice was barely a whisper.  
  
"I will love you until then," Frodo said.   
  
The fire was burning low; the night was growing old. Soon they would have to leave. He held to her tighter. Another hot tear, not his own, splashed onto his cheek.   
  
"As will I," Mornenêl said.  
  
After that, there was nothing else to say.  
  
***** 


	20. Lost

*****  
2nd Interlude:  
  
(September 20, 1421, Shire Reckoning: )  
  
Rosie was staying with her family; Sam cooked the meal, and it was delicious--leftovers of one of Rosie's meat pies, carrots, steamed cabbage, brown bread and fresh butter, and peaches with heavy cream--Frodo sat filling up the corners, taking a break from speaking, downing his beer in slow long swallows. He looked so tired, Sam thought . . . all the years of bearing the Ring lay heavily upon him, and something more besides. "You never spoke of her during the quest, sir. It had me sore troubled, but what was I to do? Didn't seem proper for me to bring it up seeing as you was keeping quiet on the matter, so I sort of fought to forget it. But I now have to wonder--what happened after? She wasn't with the marriage party that came from Rivendell with Arwen. Something bad happened, I reckon, but I never really found out what. You kept it close, Mr. Frodo; as close as ever a Bagginses could. Why are you so nervous to see her now?"  
  
Frodo finished his beer and rubbed his hand--the maimed one--over his brow, as if to wipe away something. The memory, perhaps.   
  
He spoke in a low voice, deep with regret. "Yes, Sam. Something bad happened. Bad, and wonderful, at the same time it seemed, and I'm afraid I reacted exactly wrong. I should have let her go after our perfect farewell. I should have been satisfied. But I wasn't. I tried to grab more . . . and lost everything. Including her love."  
  
Sam shook his head, bemused that his dear master could have done such a thing, and even more that he had kept silent about it all this time. He cleaned up their supper, settled Frodo in his favorite chair by the fire, and settled himself down at his feet to softly rub Frodo's hand which often troubled him in the evenings, looking expectantly up at him not unlike a hobbit child waiting for its bedtime tale. Frodo smiled sadly, his eyes damp, and continued to tell his story.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
April 5, 1419, Shire Reckoning:  
  
  
  
Frodo woke up first.   
  
Just the fact he had woken up at all, when he never expected to, gave him reason to pause, to lie for a moment and contemplate things. He was awake. The air was clean--he could smell spring in the air, growing things, and something else--aethelas. How very strange. He hadn't smelled that since he left Aragorn and the others of the Fellowship to take the Ring . . . he wiggled his fingers. Yes. It was gone. The Ring, the finger, all of it--half his soul, gone. He glanced over at the other bed in the room and saw Sam sleeping and half choked on a sob. Was that really Sam, looking so pale and drawn and *thin*, big circles under his eyes and his lips swollen and chapped? Frodo licked his own lips. Yes, the same. But he had woken first. And where was, he, anyway?  
  
"In Ithilien, and today is April 5th in the Shire Reckoning." Frodo turned and gaped. Gandalf?!  
  
"You're alive?" he managed to ask. His voice was a mere whisper, thin and ragged.  
  
"And so are you. A most remarkable outcome, if you think about it. Are you hungry? We did not expect you to wake today--truly you are stronger than you appear, Frodo Baggins. Some bread and soup, I think would be wisest to start with. We have been feeding you only honey water and broth." Gandalf was white, Frodo noted--entirely white, and more powerful than ever. How did he know that? Echoes--echoes of the Ring. He would be changed forever.  
  
"That sounds fine. Will Sam wake soon?" What to say to Sam, who had carried him he didn't know how far in the last days, who must have neglected himself to make sure Frodo carried on, and who again after the end, after Gollum and the Ring fell into the Cracks of Doom, forced Frodo to keep going to try and save himself? Frodo's mind was awhirl. He was supposed to be dead. He wasn't supposed to have lived. What was life going to be now?  
  
In a daze he ate what Gandalf gave him, saw Aragorn peek in on him--he didn't know what to say to Aragorn, who he realized was going to be King now. He didn't know what to say to anyone. He was in shock, he supposed. Everything felt like a dream. Then Gandalf gave him some juice to drink, and there must have been something in the juice, for once again dreams found him, and he slept. When he awoke, Sam was stirring and it was the next day.  
  
Everything floated by in a dreamy sort of haze. The field of Cormallen, seeing Merry and Pippin, and sad sad Legolas crying out for the sea, and Gimli, and hearing strange tales of Ents and Merry's valiant strike against the Witchking--it all blurred together into some strange tale he should be reading at Bilbo's feet in the Shire. But he ached. His hand, and something else too--he would never be filled, never be at peace. Like a hollow shell he ate and gained strength and watched days pass, but he was somehow disconnected. He heard of the plans of Aragorn's crowning and hints of a possible wedding in the future.  
  
And suddenly he thought of Mornenêl. He had survived; he had succeeded. What would happen now? Would she come with Arwen's wedding party, or would she still be in Rivendell when he eventually returned to the Shire? Did he have anything left to give her?  
  
Aragorn was very busy these days--perhaps he was not yet King but he was commander of the forces that had gone to meet Sauron's army at the gates of Mordor--images flashed in Frodo's mind of the tales Pippin had told him, his mithril shirt held aloft, the depair, Pippin fighting a troll--a mountain troll--he looked so different in his Gondorian armor . . . Frodo fought to keep thoughts in order. He knew exactly what Sam was talking about when he said they'd have to sit Frodo down later to take it all down, take notes. He felt so lost most of the time now. A leaf in the breeze. Purposeless. Yes, that was it--his task was completed. He had no more tasks. And no more will to find a new one.  
  
When he found Aragorn and tried to ask him about whether the rumors were true, Aragorn only shook his had and said they must wait. Not all was certain, yet. "In a few days we will return to Minas Tirith. You can see the city you helped to save. Just rest, Frodo. I know you are still recovering from your labors. Don't think of the future, not yet. Enjoy the present."  
  
"If Arwen comes," Frodo asked, unable to hold back his curiosity, to do what Aragorn suggested, "If she comes, do you think Mornenêl will come also?"  
  
Aragorn sighed, clasping his hands before him as he gazed out on the field at the banners of Rohan and Gondor. "I don't know. She is not a handmaiden to Arwen, and so would have no obvious reason to come; nor would her husband. But then again, perhaps. Word has been sent to Rivendell; they know of our actions here. I warn you, things were dark there as well--I saw a great battle at the Ford of Bruinin. When war came, it came upon all the strongholds of the fair."  
  
A shadow crept over Frodo's heart, but he could not say why. "You saw . . . through the palantir?"  
  
Aragorn nodded. Then he smiled. "All is well; they repelled the attack. I cannot see everything, but I know that at least is true. Have patience. You will see her again, in time. For now, simply concentrate on regaining your strength. I intend for you to have a part to play in my coronation."  
  
Frodo nodded and left. He caught a glimpse of Merry and Pippin as he walked through the tents of the armies, so flashing and bright in their rainment of green for Rohan and black for Gondor. Again, Frodo felt so distant, so cut off from events.   
  
Is this the way elves feel, when an Age has passed for them? He wondered, staring off into the west. He thought he could see the thin spire of the white tower in the distance, framed from behind by tall grey mountains. He waited to feel something--anything, but within him all was cloudy, murky.  
  
He strove to feel love, the love that had so burned within him those days in Rivendell.  
  
But all he could feel was emptiness.  
  
*****  
  
TBC  
  
***** 


	21. A Wedding and Plans to Part

Midsummer's Day, 1419, Shire Reckoning  
  
*****  
  
The wedding day was everything Bilbo's old tales of elven romance could possibly have imagined--the White Tree was in bloom, the skies clear and turquoise blue but touched with just the hint of a cool breeze from the north. Children were laughing in the streets of Minas Tirith throwing wildflowers (which were growing rampant in the fields outside the Gates) and everywhere hung streamers of blue and silver. From every door hung wreaths of grass and lavender, bringing good luck and health to the King and his Lady.  
  
Frodo felt lost in a vision of elven beauty--it seemed the entire house of Elrond had transported itself to Gondor, and the city rang out with their songs of joy and love. Arwen and her handmaidens passed like silvery beams of moonlight with their gowns lined with gossamer-fine lace and pearls. Every dark-haired beauty was a painful reminder to Frodo of one whose face he did not see in the city.  
  
Mornenêl had not come.  
  
He had not had a chance to ask Aragorn yet of the reason, if she had given any. Perhaps she and her husband had returned to the Grey Havens; perhaps she was assigned to the care of the apartments in Rivendell in the absence of most of the household; she was not an elf of high status, compared to many of those in Rivendell.  
  
Frodo was kept busy enough getting himself ready not to dwell on it--there was to be another little ceremony thanking him for his completion of the quest by Elrond, and he had finery to wear and a small part to play in the wedding ceremony as well--he was nervously rehearsing his elvish in preparation. It had been a long time since the lovely language last passed his lips. Hopefully it would wash out memory of the snippets of Black Speech he now comprehended. But it would also bring back memory of her and his days in Rivendell.  
  
He longed to crawl into a hole and hide.  
  
At least if Bilbo had come Frodo would have had someone to talk to about all the things that had happened--he couldn't really burden Sam any more with his concerns, and Merry and Pippin were quite busy with their new duties as knights. But instead, Frodo suffered alone with his thoughts, his worries and half-grasped hopes for the future. Were things over for him on all matters concerning? Had she told her husband? Had he reacted poorly? Before, the task set for him had filled his being, all his mind--he had not dared to think of her, lest it weaken his resolve, create a space for the Ring to work its evil influence on him.  
  
So much of his joy of life had been eaten away, it was a surprise to feel anything at all, but by the dull throb somewhere near the region of his heart and the lump of misery in his throat, it was apparent he could still feel at least something. Perhaps he was still capable of love. He would not know for sure until he saw her. See if joy truly was a memory, or if it was something he could still clasp hold of.  
  
He smiled his way through the ceremony, feeling odd and uncomfortable in elven finery that had been made for him, perfect to size. He entertained himself with the notion that perhaps Mornenêl had helped it its creation, but there was nothing to suggest that was more than a fantasy.  
  
It was a moonlight ceremony under the stars and hundreds of softly glowing elven lanterns hung throughout the city and up the White Tower. Elrond gave away his daughter in a graceful dance in which Aragorn participated--a slow graceful flowing dance absolutely nothing like the gay romps common in the Shire, nothing like any dance Frodo had ever seen before. It was like grass swaying in the breeze, like a flower dropped into a slow moving brook, swirling through the currents, a snowflake falling.  
  
When the dance was over, Aragorn and Arwen exchanged vows. It was done. The elves sang a song rejoicing in their union, the humans blew their horns announcing the marriage and Queen Arwen Undomiel was crowned. Afterwards there was much feasting, singing, dancing, and pleasant talk. Frodo congratulated the couple, but he felt detached, merely an observer who had no right to take part in the festivities. Of all the things he felt, most keenly was the lack of ability to feel.  
  
He left only when Sam begged leave to take his bed, having consumed too much elven wine. All evening he debated asking Elrond or any other elf for news of Mornenêl, but he never found the courage, and no one ever brought the subject up, which he found almost odd--it had certainly been known he was friends with her. He would have asked Legolas, but after a brief appearance, the elf disappeared with some of his kinsmen.  
  
So he left unfulfilled, curiosity unsatisfied.  
  
The festivities lasted about two weeks, during which the question burned brighter and more urgently in Frodo's breast. His strength was as great as it would ever be after his toils, and he was eager to get to Rivendell, ostensibly to see Bilbo but in truth to see Mornenêl and speak with her.  
  
He went to Aragorn, and Arwen greeted him, stating that she knew his reason for coming to them. He confessed his intent to visit Rivendell before returning home and she reminded him of Bilbo's age and condition--he often forgot how old Bilbo really was; for so long age had not touched him. But of course now with the Ring's destruction, Bilbo would be affected as well. He wondered if Bilbo could still find pleasure in anything.  
  
As he thought that, Arwen surprised him with a gift. As she would not now be sailing to the West, she granted Frodo the option, and laid upon his breast a white gem, which suddenly sang to him of peace, and rest, and laughter. Suddenly he understood the pain Legolas had felt hearing the call of the seagull--that call was there, within that gem singing to him of a distant shore where all his sorrows would be washed away. He clutched it and bowed his head, feeling sorrow and gratitude together.  
  
He had no words for a reply. She smiled at him in understanding and embraced him, and Aragorn kissed his brow. "This is a powerful choice my wife bestows upon you. May it bring you happiness."  
  
It was then that the full import hit him--he had been given the gift of the elves, to see the faces of the Valar and dwell among the eldest of beings in the undying lands that had flowered under the two trees--where Mornenêl's mother resided. Where Mornenêl would someday depart to herself.  
  
"Aragorn, what will this mean? Will I have any kind of a future that might include Mornenêl? Or has she already moved beyond me? She didn't come . . ." Tears threatened to choke him, and he didn't know if it was that he was finally recovering from the shock of destroying the Ring, or if the little white gem had some part in restoring the part of his heart that had been missing, but now he felt awash with emotion. Overwhelmed, indeed. Tears leaked from his eyes to slide down his cheeks.  
  
Arwen looked away, her eyes glistening and Aragorn hugged him hard. "I should have told you the day of the wedding--the next morning at least, but I did not want to hurt you and we were so busy with everything. Mornenêl had to return to the Grey Havens, so was unable to join the wedding party. She could not have joined anyway. She--" he grimaced-- "she is in mourning."  
  
Frodo's heart lurched painfully. "In mourning? For whom?" He remembered Aragorn's words of a battle at the Bruinen, and also reports of attacks on Mirkwood and Lothlorien. Had one of her kin been killed?  
  
"When we were in Lothlorien, Galadriel saw that the elven strongholds must prepare to be attacked, and sent word requesting reinforcements. Three times the Golden Wood was besieged, by massive numbers. The elves were successful at driving back the enemy, but now without cost." Aragorn paused, studying Frodo intently.  
  
"Turil was one who went to Lothlorien to aid in the defense. He was killed by a poisoned arrow."   
  
It was as if Frodo had been struck; his legs gave out and he found himself sprawled on the floor. Almost he could hear the Ring laughing at his torment in which it had had surely somehow been responsible, that by its poison his darkest dream had been granted in the most horrible fashion conceivable. "What horror!" he gasped, fighting to breathe, struggling to his feet. Was it in any way possible? Had his desires somehow caused a noble elf's downfall? He saw himself again as he had been at the Crack of Doom, embracing the Ring and all its power, succumbing to its promises. His vision darkened and he swooned forward and would have fallen if not for Arwen's steady hand on him. The mist cleared a little. He could feel Arwen's gem's burning at his throat, anchoring to this place, this time. He clung to it tightly.  
  
"It was not your fault, Frodo," Aragorn's voice was strong, even. Frodo nodded miserably.  
  
"How is--M--" He couldn't even say her name, though he longed to. The future was spinning dizzily out of control, with too many possibilities. Would she blame him? Or perhaps herself?  
  
"She took the news very hard, I'm afraid," Arwen said in her low melodious voice, still holding Frodo gently by the shoulders. "She insisted that his body be taken to his father at the Grey Havens; it was her husband's wish to be laid at rest near the sea." She fell quiet, gently stroking Frodo's back, but he shuddered and shook his head, unable to endure her touch. He stepped back, swiping at his eyes.  
  
"I must talk to her. I feel somehow responsible," he said, ignoring Aragorn shaking his head.  
  
Arwen nodded. "Of course you must talk to her. But do not feel at fault--the music of the Ainur is oft bittersweet, but love shall triumph. I do not know if she will stay in the Havens, return to Rivendell, Mirkwood, or sail across the sea. They will know in Rivendell, though, as her things are still there. You can talk to Drëanna who was a governess for me for many years. She can help you find what you need to know."  
  
Frodo looked up into her violet eyes, so loving and peaceful. Through he envied it; he did not begrudge Aragorn his happiness. He hoped the two of them would live for centuries in bliss together. "Thank you. Thank you for everything."  
  
He left then, and spent the rest of the day in his room at Gandalf's little house, dreaming of the moment he would see her face again.  
  
But he could not stop wondering.  
  
Would Mornenêl even *want* to see him again?  
  
*****  
  
TBC  
  
***** 


	22. A knock on the door

It was always fall in Rivendell.  
  
Well perhaps that was not entirely accurate, Frodo had to concede, but it had been late fall when last he had visited, and now it was coming into fall again, as Bilbo's and his birthday drew near. The leaves were just beginning to change from green to the rainbow hues of yellow, gold, red, brown, orange, but the ground was yet clear for the most part, and Frodo could see summer's end in the wildflowers and carpet of thick grasses.  
  
Naturally the first place Frodo visited was dear old Bilbo's, and despite his fear of what the destruction of the Ring would do to the aged hobbit, he could see no outward sign of suffering. Bilbo was extremely happy to see him, of course, but his memory was failing him a little, and half the time he forgot why Frodo had left in the first place. He'd also apparently forgotten about Mornenêl; when Frodo inquired as to her well being, he got a blank look for several seconds.  
  
"Why would you want to know that?"  
  
Frodo reminded him of the meeting years ago and their friendship, and blushing, the old hobbit admitted he'd forgotten about Frodo's 'darling crush' on the elf maiden. "Oh but I shouldn't jest; no, not at all. The poor dear is most beleaguered these days with grief. Why, I haven't seen her at meals in close to a month!"  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Frodo, going pale at the thought of the fair elf wasting herself away in some grotesque mirror of what had happened to him in Mordor. "Surely she's still eating? Where can I find her?"  
  
Bilbo puffed slowly at his pipe, sitting back in his overstuffed chair by the fire where he spent most his time now. "Well goodness no; she must eat sometime--elves don't live on air, much though they look like they do. I expect she has food brought in and keeps to her room. She returned her, now when was it . . . " he struggled to remember. "Hmm, just about a fortnight ago."  
  
"But you said . . ." Sam began to ask. Frodo shot him a look to remain quiet. Well if she'd only returned two weeks ago then a month of not seeing her at dinner didn't seem quite as bad.  
  
"Do you know if she is receiving any visitors?" Frodo persevered, offering Bilbo some tea and biscuits which he gladly accepted. Time stood still here, Frodo saw with new clarity. Small wonder if Bilbo couldn't keep track of events . . . it was an atmosphere that lent itself to the simple pleasures of the moment, letting memory fade and the future remain obscure. A blissful existence, really, given Frodo's past in particular. He scarcely felt his scars here.  
  
Bilbo looked at him with a sudden intensity in his watery blue eyes, sitting up in the chair and setting aside his pipe. "She will leave soon, you do understand, my boy? She'll depart soon for the Hidden Shore; I'm quite certain of it. There's nothing left for her here. Won't be anything left for me here either once Elrond and Gandalf leave."  
  
Frodo felt Sam shift behind him, knew this kind of talk upset his companion who was less touched by the decay of the Ring, still full of life, hope, and plans for the future. Frodo gripped Bilbo's arm, trying to convey both his understanding and support, and also a slight warning that Sam was not ready to hear such things. Bilbo grabbed his hand tight, still surprisingly strong at his age, and smiled at him tearfully, his fingers falling into the empty space where Frodo's third finger had been.  
  
It was only after they left Bilbo sleeping that Frodo realized he had not answered the question about Mornenêl; whether or not she would see him.   
  
He couldn't wait until the next day to ask Bilbo again, and he didn't want to ask another elf who might know more, or bother Elrond who was undoubtedly busy. He had to admit, now that he was here, he was impatient to see her whether she was ready to see him or now. He had to see her face, see if she still loved him, if he could help her in her grief in any way. And yes, he had to admit it. See if she believed in any kind of a future for them.  
  
Sam he tried to encourage to go to his chamber, but as Sam loved to say, his job of protecting his master wasn't over until they were safe in the Shire--and better--safe inside a hobbit hole. So Frodo let him follow behind as he made his way towards what had been Mornenêl and Turil's chambers on the lower wing of Elrond's House. When he tried to knock on the door, however, he was stopped by two elven maids suddenly materializing from the end of the hallway to gently lead him away from the door.  
  
"Forgive us, but she is in deep mourning. She is not to be disturbed. When she is ready, she will emerge and arrange for visitation with close friends. You must wait, Frodo Baggins." The two elves were both dark of hair, but by their slow grace and regal bearing, Frodo knew they could not be kin--they had not the look or manner of elves of Mirkwood. He did not know who they were. He supposed they knew of him only by news of his deeds--unless Mornenêl had specifically asked them to keep him away . . . his throat clenched.  
  
"She is not seeing anyone, or just doesn't want to see me?"  
  
The first elf, old enough to have age lines around her eyes, spoke. "She sees who she will see. She knows of your coming; it was announced some days ago. She will call for you when . . . and if she desires to see you. Good evening."  
  
Frodo found himself breathing hard, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing. If that wasn't an utter rejection, what else could it be? She didn't *want* to see him. Buy why? Was she afraid? Or had she only been able to love him knowing he would go off and die, and be only a memory she never had to face again, never have to deal with . . . he found himself growing angry. Furious, in fact. To have gone through so much only to return and be treated thus . . .   
  
He drew himself up as tall as his stature would allow, feeling a ghost of the power that had sung in him holding the Ring, speaking commands as if to a creature like Gollum, "I *will* see her. Perhaps today is too soon, so I will return tomorrow, but I will see her before I depart. I must give my condolences-Turil was a noble elf and I grieve with her. But I also love her, and I will say that to her face and see if she still loves me, if ever she did." He ignored the choked gasp from Sam and the look of horror and affront from the elves, pushing past them to knock loudly on the door.  
  
"I won't hide any longer! I've lost too much to hide now. I won't be miserable in the dark. Only let me know your feelings, and I will depart. Or stay. Your choice!" He said to the door in a loud voice. For several moments he waited to see if any reply would come.  
  
None did. He heard the elves shift nervously, not quite sure how to deal with this once meek and polite hobbit now strange and fearsome, a little touch of Mordor inside their tranquil halls.  
  
What a monster he was to behave so. The darkness would always be a part of him now. He could hardly blame Mornenêl rejection.  
  
"I will come again tomorrow," he announced, softer this time, then turned his heel and left, Sam chasing after him to keep up.  
  
He did not give in to tears until he was safe in his bed, alone. Stars, what had he done? He had just revealed everything; that's what-the elves could not pretend nothing had happened; he had challenged their ways.   
  
He had undoubtedly just lost Mornenêl forever.  
  
Once again, the future was ash, dust, as Gollum so eloquently had put it when tasting of the lembas. There would be no peace for him anywhere.   
  
Softly by the light of the moon and the rustle of the first falling leaves, he wept.  
  
***  
  
TBC  
  
***  
  
  
A/N: I've started school again, and unfortunately won't be able to post very often until my 8 week accelerated class is done--please forgive! I promise, I will finish this! We're getting there, actually--maybe 5-10 chapters to go . . .   
Thanks for all your reviews. 


	23. A last interlude

3rd Interlude: September 20, 1421, Shire Reckoning:  
  
The fire was growing low, dying out. Outside, the stars shone bright and cold, illuminating a cool frosty evening. Rosie had returned and thus Frodo's story telling would have to wait for the morning--and the journey. This was precisely as Frodo wanted it; to reveal what had happened next was to reveal too much to Sam, would bring to him the realization of where they were going--not to Bree as he had told Sam as a stop on the way to Rivendell, but west, to the Havens.   
  
Once Sam knew of their destination, Frodo would finish the tale. Then too, he would know how the tale ended. If she had decided to come.  
  
Sam stood before Frodo, his eyes glowing amber by the light of the embers, alook of distress upon his broad face. "But Mr. Frodo, sir, you can't just leave it hanging like that. However am I supposed to sleep now not knowing how things went? You did speak with you, didn't you. While I was asleep, no doubt."   
  
Frodo smiled, bittersweet. Dear Sam. How he would miss his earthy speech. "Yes, Sam; just so. But it is late, and in the morning I mean to leave early. It is enough for now. I am weary." Indeed that was true. It was as if he could still feel the Ring hanging so heavy from his neck--but perhaps more painful yet was its absence. He was so drained, so depleted. He would never be whole of body, mind, soul . . . or heart. Not even in the Blessed Isles.  
  
Sam's face fell as he saw his master stumble, the head drooping and a shaky hand reaching out for support. "So sorry, master Frodo! And me pushing you so hard into talking today. Come; to bed with you. Talking's just as good on a pony ride, I expect, especially through open countryside with a bit of fresh air to liven the senses. It'll be just you and me. Just like old times. To bed with you then, and don't you fret none. Whatever it was, whatever happened, we'll fix things. You'll see her again, and everything will be right as rain, as my Gaffer used to say."  
  
Frodo nodded and allowed Sam to lead him to his room, turning down the blankets as Frodo changed into his nightshirt, fetching him a warmed compress for his shoulder, then blowing out the candle once Frodo was comfortable. Frodo watched him leave, the shadow moving along the rich whitewashed walls of the smial, committing the image to memory. He'd been a good friend. It was sad that soon now they must part. He would make sure Sam understood him--all of him; his hopes and his fears and his love and his failure. Sam would become the record keeper, and Frodo would live on in him.  
  
For some time after, Frodo stared up at the round ceiling, feeling very similar to how he had felt a certain evening in Rivendell--the night he had gone to speak with her. He had been sleepless and anxious, and worried. Perhaps with a little more hope in his breast than he had tonight. How brash he had been, how brave! Would that he had been more courteous as well. More patient. Sighing, Frodo closed his eyes and let weariness claim him. In short order, he was asleep.  
  
***  
  
It was a pleasant ride the next day, the 21st of September, and as fine a day as could be wished. They rode their favoured ponies and spoke little but of the harvest, the doings of others in Hobbiton, and wondering how other members of the Fellowship were doing. Sam asked of the tale, but Frodo begged off, saying it was too depressing a matter for open blue skies and rich golden fields.   
  
He managed to hold off speaking of it until the next morning.  
  
When they came upon the elves, when Sam found out where exactly they were heading, and to be heading there with Bilbo and Elrond and Galadriel for company, well, Frodo knew all thoughts of his story were wiped clean from his head. Sam's sorrow was heartbreaking to watch; the knowledge that he could not come; not now at least, not with a family and a future waiting at home for him. He nodded numbly as Frodo went over the last matters of business of Bag End. He asked to be left to his thoughts for a bit. But now Frodo needed to speak. Mornenel was not there among the elves of Elrond's house. She had made her decision, obviously.   
  
She would not go to the Havens with Frodo.  
  
As they began riding again, Gandalf settling in beside Frodo and Sam, Frodo drew Sam closer, his heart unbearably heavy, his vision blurred by tears.  
  
"I can now tell you the ending, Sam. Unfortunately, it is not a pleasant one. She did not come."  
  
Sam blanched and reached out a hand to grasp Frodo's knee, possibly afraid he would fall off the pony. "Sir! Was she to be a part of Elrond's company here, then? Is it possible she already left and is waiting for you?"  
  
Frodo shook his head, though it took almost more energy than he could spare. His right hand was clenched tight around the white gem Arwen had bestowed upon him. "Let me tell you what happened while you were sleeping. Then, I think it will all make sense . . ."   
  
*****  
  
TBC  
  
*****  
  
  
  
A/N: SORRRY!!!!!!!!! Last semester was awful, and the plot bunny nearly died on this one, but I promised to finish, and so I shall! Sorry too that this chapter's so short, but had to start somewhere--be happy to know I'm already halfway through the next chapter and there will only be a chapter or two after that, then we'll be done! THanks to everyone who kept prodding me to keep this alive and for all your feedback. 


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